Page 36 of Again, Scoundrel

It was early enough that the crush wasn’t out yet, leaving a few still, quiet hours for the two cousins to converse in private about what had happened the evening before. Violet had given Catherine the barest outline of her activities in the gardens before Miss Jenson’s asthma attack but would not elaborate further.

“I wish you’d speak with me. There’s nothing you could say that would shock me.”

Violet only shook her head mutely. What could she say to her cousin? That she’d spent all night awake, tossing and turning in her bed, the sheets wrapping around her tangled limbs? That she had a physical ache that could not be fulfilled? That too much of yesterday evening had been her worst nightmare?

True, she’d done what needed to be done with Miss Jenson. She had helped her; she knew that beyond a doubt. Her asthmatic patients in New York were plentiful, and the breathing exercises she’d shown the young woman would do wonders for lesser attacks.

But all that had happened after—that was her worst nightmare.

“Was he too forward with you? Did he force you?” Catherine asked in the face of Violet’s silence.

“No. No, of course not.”

She’d been the forward one.

She’d pressed her lips to his and not the other way around. She’d done what she swore she would not do, which was lose herself in the embrace of another gentleman and put her body and her future at risk. Just like she had unknowingly risked James’s so long ago.

Risked and lost.

She knew, of course, that no society, not the aristocracy here in London nor their counterparts in New York, would accept her choice of profession. She was too high born, and ladies did not work with their hands. Nor with bodies, body parts, or blood.

So, she shouldn’t have been surprised when Alistair had sided with Mrs. Jenson and called for the surgeon. And yet she had been. Her heart especially had hoped for a different outcome and been severely disappointed when it did not get it.

Violet shook her head in dismay. Best to remove him from her thoughts and concentrate on Catherine. And the need to tell their mothers what had happened.

Or some of it, anyway. The two elder women had left Catherine and Violet to navigate the season alone, no doubt in hopes that without their presence Violet might forget herself and engage in a flirtation too.

But after last night, Catherine would need the protection of her mother, the dowager countess. Violet could no longer act as her singular companion, and she’d stayed awake all night, trying to understand how she could have let this happen.

“Enough wool gathering and sad faces, Violet. Tell me what is going on. You really can’t be that upset about a potential blemish to my reputation if I’m not upset.”

“Excuse me, my ladies.” A Scottish brogue broke into their conversation. “I don’t wish to accost you, but I was at the Waverly Ball yesterday evening, and I’d like to have a word.”

Violet muffled a groan. If she didn’t want to discuss yesterday evening with her cousin, she certainly didn’t want to discuss it with a stranger.

“I’m sorry, we can’t help you,” Violet said and made a move to step around the Scot.

The man nodded as if in agreement but moved his enormous body just slightly so she could not pass.

“I can understand it,” he said. “They did not treat you well, if I might be so bold. I won’t detain you for long, but I did wish to say I was impressed by your actions, Miss Goodwin.”

He handed Violet his card. “If you find you’d like to practice medicine further, my sister works with the poor in Covent Garden on Thursdays. She’s not trained like you, just provides clean bandages and a meal and the like. She could use your knowledge, if you’d be willing. Come and see us any Thursday at all. Good day to you both.”

The Scotsman bowed and took his leave, while Violet stared at the card in her hand.

“Who was that?” Catherine asked, grinning. “He’s delicious.”

“Catherine! You’re incorrigible.”

Catherine only smiled more. “You didn’t notice? Oh, my dear, Alistair Crawford has scrambled your wits more than I thought if you didn’t notice that man. What does the card say?”

“That his name is Andrew McGann.” She turned it over. “And the address given is for something called Nowhere. How odd.”

“Nothing else?”

Violet shook her head and slid the card into her reticule. “No.”

“I guess we’ll find out what he’s about on Thursday, won’t we?”