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“Huh?” The boy stared at her, the creases in his brow accentuating the dirt on his face.
“Never mind. What’s your name?”
He sniffled again. “They call me Fingers.”
She smiled in spite of herself. He definitely must be a remnant of the dispersed gang. Was Manny the only one with an actual name? “Now, where are you injured?”
“My ankle. It’s twisted right good, it is. Tripped on that damn root.”
Her mind drifted back to Timothy and his tumble from his horse. “You need a physician.”
If possible, the child’s face paled under the layers of caked dirt. “I ain’t gettin’ poked and prodded by no fancy doctor. I ain’t got no money.” He slid a sorrowful glance toward Priscilla’s reticule. “At least not anymore. Besides, them fancy doctors gots leeches.” The child shuddered. She couldn’t blame him.
“What about the clinic? Will you allow me to take you there? I know one of the doctors, and he’s very kind. He knows all about twisted ankles.”
“It ain’t no trick? You ain’t goin’ take me to the constable?”
She rose and put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “If I were going to do that, I would simply wait for Mr. Ugbrooke to return with one. Perhaps the pain has clouded your thinking. I would imagine it takes a modicum of intelligence to live off thieving.”
The boy grinned at her, apparently pleased with the compliment.
“Now,” she said, “Can you stand a little? Nancy and I will assist you, and we’ll hire a hackney to take us to the clinic.”
She motioned for Nancy to stand on the other side of the child, and together, they lifted him to his feet, supporting him under the arms as he hopped on one foot.
Priscilla gazed around. “We must hurry before Mr. Ugbrooke returns.” They moved in the opposite direction from where Mr. Ugbrooke had gone, finally making it to Knightsbridge. Luckily, a hackney waited for a paying customer.
Priscilla flagged it down, and as they climbed in, she said, “The Hope Clinic. And do hurry.”
* * *
After escorting Honoria home,Timothy took a hackney to the East End. Since he’d fabricated the need to be at the clinic in order to put some distance between himself and Priscilla, he decided to make the best of it. It wouldn’t do to admit to Honoria the real reasons for his excuse. Thank goodness she appeared content to have the afternoon alone with her book.
The tinkle of the bell on the clinic door announced his entrance. Harry glanced up from where he was calling the next patient, and his brow puckered. “Didn’t you request the day off?”
Timothy nodded. “Change of plans.” He gazed around the waiting area. “Who’s next?”
Harry shook his head and left to tend to his next patient, leaving Timothy alone to do the same. On the way to the examination rooms, he passed Oliver in the hallway.
Oliver raised a dark eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”
“Glad to see I’ve been missed,” Timothy muttered under his breath.
“What’s that?” The grin on Oliver’s face indicated his hearing functioned perfectly well. “I thought you were going to call on your intended. Trouble in paradise?”
“Not at all. We simply called our outing short. Lady Honoria purchased a book she wished to read.”
Oliver’s gaze dipped to the book Timothy held, his grin widening enough to display the dimple in his cheek. “Planning on doing a bit of reading yourself between patients?”
Drat.He should have stopped at home to deposit his book. “Didn’t want to waste time stopping at home. Thought I might be needed here.”
Oliver patted him on the back. “Always. Now get to work.”
Thank goodness the interrogation from his fellow physicians ceased, and he could distract himself with work. All was working well. He filled his time lancing a boil, dressing a laceration, and providing a poultice for a nasty cough. Why he hardly thought of Priscilla at all in the last—he peeked at his pocket watch—hour.
Except when he treated Mrs. Owens’ laceration, and he remembered Priscilla’s scratched face from the chicken when they were at the cottage. Oh, and when he lanced six-year-old Gordon’s boil, and the lad stared up at him with those big blue eyes. And of course there was the poultice for Mrs.—
“Help! We need help!” a woman’s voice called out from the waiting area—a very familiar woman’s voice.
