Page 43 of Again, Scoundrel

Esmee scowled at the bartender, who shot her a grin. “I’m sure he did, lass. I do have to tell you that McGann may have exaggerated about the clinic a wee bit.”

“You don’t need a nurse?”

Violet felt the disappointment thrum through her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been missing her vocation, how badly she had needed to practice medicine until the week she’d been left with nothing to do but sit inside all day. Nursing was what she did. It was who she was, and she felt empty without it.

“Oh, we do need a nurse,” Esmee corrected, looking at Violet’s crestfallen face. “‘Tis only that what we do now is feed people, but we could serve the sick as well if we had a nurse.”

“So, you don’t have a clinic yet?” Violet asked hopefully. “But you want one?”

“That’s it exactly,” McGann said, strolling over to the table and placing a kiss on Esmee’s cheek. “I see you’ve met my sister, Miss Goodwin.”

“I did,” Violet said brightly and put the card he had left her on the table. “Thank you for bringing me here, Mr. McGann. I’m delighted to start a clinic with you both.”

She squinted her eyes at the two of them. “You don’t look alike.”

Esmee said, “We’ve the same eyes,” at the same time as McGann said, “We’re both tall.”

The two statements, plus the whisky and a half, made Violet giggle. She was feeling slightly tipsy and very happy.

“I’m sorry we’re not ready for you today, lass,” McGann went on, “but next week, Thursday, we will be. Esmee will find you a hack and see you home now.”

He turned to his sister, who nodded and excused herself.

“No.” Violet smiled sweetly at him, like she’d seen Catherine do.

“What do you mean, no?”

“No.” Violet shook her head. “I won’t go. I don’t want to sit by myself in that big, empty house.”

“Be that as it may, respectable lasses do not drink whisky in taverns in Covent Garden. I’ll see you home.”

“I,” Violet said, and pointed to her chest, “am not respectable.”

The Scot grinned. “You are, lass, whether you know it or not. Let’s go.”

“No.” Violet shook her head resolutely. “I’m not leaving, unless—” Her eyes grew bright with an idea.

“Unless what?” McGann asked, voice wary.

She leaned across the table. “Unless you kiss me.”

McGann froze. “How many whiskies have you had?”

“One and a half,” Violet said, pleased with herself and her new idea.

If she couldn’t satisfy her restlessness to practice medicine today, she could satisfy the other restlessness she’d been facing down all week. The one that was specifically about Alistair Crawford and how he made her body tingle when she thought of him.

She’d been kissed once before, the night James had died, but it had felt nothing like Alistair’s kiss. It had been awkward and dry, the young man’s tongue jamming into her mouth and gums. She grimaced slightly at the remembrance.

She didn’t know if James’s death had colored her memory of that kiss or if most men were like that and Alistair was different. There were too many variables; she needed more test cases to know for sure. And now she had an opportunity for just that.

McGann, meanwhile, was looking over at Esmee, who’d replaced the lad behind the bar. She raised her eyebrows at him as if she’d heard Violet’s demand to be kissed. He frowned at her and then turned back at Violet.

“Come now, let’s go home.” He held out his hand for Violet to take.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Aye, you do.”