Earl of Oakhurst Page 2

  It was not the first time she’d encountered a patient who refused to allow her to see to them. She pushed through the door to her far right and entered the hospital room in search of a surgeon.

  Dr. Bailey, the physician on staff at St. Thomas’s, stood over a patient with something white in his hands. Whatever it was, he appeared to be lowering it onto the person’s head.

  He glared. “Leave, Lady Penelope.”

  “What are you doing?” She came deeper into the room and peered at the pale face beneath the mask-looking item.

  “I’m seeing to a patient,” he said through gritted teeth. “Get out now.”

  “But I—”

  “In the hall now,” he growled. “I want a word with you and not in front of this patient.”

  Dr. Bailey was a tall, lean man with a bit of white hair combed over his glossy pate like fine cotton, but he still cut an imposing figure when he glared down at Penelope, exactly as he did now.

  “Lady Penelope, I will not have you questioning me.” Dr. Bailey’s lips were thin and folded together when he was annoyed, making him resemble something of a turtle. “Especially not in front of a patient.”

  Penelope had dealt with worse than an annoyed, pretentious physician in her time at St. Thomas’s. She squared her shoulders, armed with the conviction of her medical knowledge. “It’s only that I’ve never seen a treatment such as that. I—”

  “That is enough,” Dr. Bailey said crisply.

  Penelope continued on as if he had not spoken. “The patient did not appear to be moving—”

  “You do not know what you think you do.” Dr. Bailey’s eyes narrowed. “You are nothing more than a woman with wild ideas, who has been overly indulged.”

  “Those ‘wild ideas’ you refer to are derived from extensive research and observation,” Penelope countered. “I deserve to be here as well as you or any other man.”

  She had gone too far. She knew she had. And she had no regret. Not one iota.

  His turtle lips snapped tight together and he glowered at her hard before speaking. “I have tried to patiently tolerate your presence in this hospital in the years you have been meddling, but I will not allow it any longer.” He did not move as a nurse rushed around him, her apron spotted with blood. Nor did he lower his voice. He wanted all to hear him.

  “You are a debutante who has been allowed to play at a game you have no business in,” he continued. “Furthermore, it is wildly inappropriate for a lady of your unfortunate marital status to be roaming about the hospital, unchaperoned.”

  Penelope folded her arms over her chest. “My unfortunate marital status?”

  “You are unwed,” he said simply. “You will never have a modicum of respect, or even a place here, until you are properly married.”

  Her heartbeat whooshed in her ears. Having her removed from volunteering at hospital had been an idle threat Dr. Bailey had insinuated in the past when Dr. Firth had been there to offer her his support. But Dr. Firth had relocated to Edinburgh six months ago, and Penelope was left without anyone to speak for her.

  “What are you saying?” Penelope’s stomach quivered even as she asked the question she already knew the answer to.

  “I will be speaking with Dr. Astley Paston Cooper to have you removed from here.” He offered a cold smile as he mentioned the President and Founder of the Medical and Chirurgical Society of London. “For your own protection, of course. As an unwed woman.”

  Tears burned in her eyes. Damn it. She would not cry now. Not in front of so awful a man. Not when she knew seeing her cry would make him gleefully satisfied.

  She balled her hands into fists and did not stop squeezing until the edges of her fingernails nipped into her palms. She tilted her chin up defiantly. “I will continue to come until I am told otherwise.”

  “Then you can expect notice from Dr. Cooper within the week.” Dr. Bailey offered a small bow, more mocking than respectful. “I saw your mother downstairs. I presume she’s waiting for you. Good day, Lady Penelope.”

  Penelope swallowed down her ire and let it burn inside her churning stomach. Dr. Bailey knew well she did not wish to wed. Everyone at St. Thomas’s knew as much. Her sole purpose in life was the pursuit of medical knowledge. She did not want a meddling husband controlling her, spending her dowry on drink and gambling even as he weighted her down with household responsibilities and children.

  Penelope waited until Dr. Bailey returned to his patient before making her way downstairs to her mother. While Lady Bursbury was not pleased with Penelope’s decision to forego marriage in pursuit of a life of learning, she had always been supportive in any way she could. Like meeting Penelope with the carriage each evening.

  Penelope’s mother waited in the main hall of the hospital. She was immaculately dressed, as one would expect from a countess. Her blue redingote was buttoned up against the stiff breeze carrying in the coming winter chill and a black bonnet covered her frosted auburn hair.

  Her face brightened when she saw Penelope. “I believe that is the fastest you’ve come down yet.” The smile on her face wilted at once. “Something is amiss. What is it?”

  Penelope shook her head and did not speak until they were secured within the privacy of the carriage. “I spoke against Dr. Bailey today.”

  “Good,” Lady Bursbury declared. “The buffoon deserves it and more. Your father will be proud of you for standing up for yourself.”

  “He says it is improper of me to be volunteering at the hospital and will petition Dr. Cooper to have me removed.” Even now the weight of his words crushed in on Penelope’s chest.

  Lady Bursbury sat forward in her seat, blue eyes flashing. “On what grounds?”

  “On the inappropriateness of my ‘unfortunate marital status.’” Penelope could not keep the bitterness from her voice as she used the exact term that he’d thrown at her.

  “Oh.” Lady Bursbury purred out the word and a slow, devious smile blossomed over her lips. “Well then, perhaps we shall have to see you wed, my darling Penelope.”

  And that was exactly what Penelope had been dreading. It was bad enough to tell one’s mother that a marriage might be the only thing to allow Penelope back at St. Thomas’s. It was worse still when one’s mother was a self-proclaimed matchmaker.

  2

  MacKenzie straightened the small gold “W” pin on his lapel and entered Ashbury Place. The Wicked Earls’ Club had welcomed him into their establishment, exactly as Alistair had predicted. And, fortunately, several would be in attendance at the ball.

  Including Lord Kendal.

  Golden light spilled from grand windows and lent a warmth to the icy night air as music and laughter tinkled through the thick glass.

  “Oh, James.” Gemma’s eyes sparkled like diamonds as she took it all in from her wheeled chair. “It’s been a considerable amount of time since I’ve been to a ball.”

  “Likewise,” MacKenzie muttered, feeling far less excited about the prospect than Gemma did. He’d participated in balls a lifetime ago and held no fond memories.

  Long-lashed eyes slid his way upon the caller’s announcement of their arrival and he knew he had the attention of the ton. Or at least the fairer sex portion of it. More specifically, the debutantes. And their mothers.

  This was why he was here, was it not? To open himself to their onslaught as a means of avoiding—

  “Ah, Lady Chatsmore is in attendance.” Gemma raised her hand and offered a delicate wave at a willowy woman with a mouth that was as wide as her nose was long.

  Something inside MacKenzie withered and died. Just a little. Enough to make him regret the whole bloody idea to attend the Ashbury’s ball.

  Lady Chatsmore’s face immediately brightened as she waved someone to her side. Most likely Judith.

  Damn.

  She had been a mistake. All of the women MacKenzie had met in England had been a mistake. They sniffed him out by the scent of his wealth and lingered with feigned interest he had been naïve
enough to believe was about him.

  “If you wanted to escape, now would be the time,” Gemma whispered up at him. “Perhaps seek out a few more eligible ladies, hmmm?”

  MacKenzie scanned the area for someone he knew. Anyone. Even as he did so, Lady Chatsmore hastened through the room with not only Lady Judith in tow, but also the youngest daughter, Lady Dinah.

  “Oakhurst.” A strong hand clapped MacKenzie on the shoulder and spun him around.

  The man was slightly taller than average with thick black hair combed rakishly back. His blue eyes were narrowed as if in thought and his mouth quirked at the corners in a show of bemusement. In all the years MacKenzie had known him, he’d always maintained a similar expression, guarding his emotions behind a debonair mask.

  “Kendal.” MacKenzie clasped hands with his old friend.

  The earl put an arm around MacKenzie’s shoulder and led him away. “Come, there is someone I must introduce you to.”

  MacKenzie allowed his friend to guide him toward the other side of the expansive room, where clusters of men stood about with snifters cupped in their gloved hands. “Yer timing is impeccable.”

  “I know,” Kendal drawled. “Still running whisky?”

  Such a simple question for such a complicated matter. MacKenzie’s whisky smuggling days had ended three years prior when Alistair became the Earl of Benton. But Kendal had run his own underground operation back then. “It’s all dried up.”

  Kendal tilted his head. “Pity.”

  “How are yer own operations progressing?” MacKenzie asked.

  The corners of Kendal’s lips twitched a little higher. “Nefarious as ever.” He rubbed a gloved finger over the golden “W,” buffing it so it gleamed.

  “I do actually have someone to introduce you to.” Kendal led MacKenzie toward the rear of the room. “A second to sponsor your seat in Parliament.”

  The caller was still bellowing names of the last, straggling guests in the background. The current one ringing out through the room caused several of the men to lift their eyes to the entryway. MacKenzie followed their gazes and immediately found what had attracted their attention: a woman.

  Not just any woman. One with glossy red hair elegantly plaited up and pinned into place with a dozen glittering gems. Her skin was like cream; her body slender and impossibly graceful in her sapphire-blue gown. And though nearly everyone in the room watched her as she walked, she didn’t appear to care a whit.

  One man in particular regarded the woman with a smirk, as if he found her tardiness amusing. It was to that very man Kendal steered MacKenzie.

  “Bursbury,” Kendal called.

  The gentleman turned to them with an affable grin. “Lord Oakhurst, I presume.”

  “Indeed,” Kendal replied. “Oakhurst, this beast of a man is the Earl of Bursbury. Don’t ever try to take him at any sport. You’ll lose, no matter how good you are.”

  Bursbury laughed at that and didn’t bother to deny the claim as he extended a hand toward MacKenzie. He was older, with strands of silver showing in his dark hair and an easy smile. “I’ve had many a fine whisky in my life, most of which was no doubt provided at risk to your neck. Thank you for that effort.” There was a casual ease about him that bespoke of confidence.

  “I always appreciate when a man has exemplary taste in whisky.” MacKenzie extended his hand in greeting and was pleased when the man took it, despite MacKenzie’s thick Scottish accent.

  The ton was not always so accepting. At least among the Wicked Earls, many knew of his past transgressions, as well as his previous employment as a valet. It hadn’t mattered. Not among them, at least.

  “My wife has been friends with Lady Oakhurst for some years,” Lord Bursbury said. “I imagine your grandmother is pleased to see you returned.”

  “Indeed she is,” MacKenzie agreed. “Though she’s already trying to push me toward marriage.”

  Bursbury chuckled and shook his head in understanding.

  “The curse of us all.” Kendal smirked. “I’ll never let a woman pin me down.”

  At this, Bursbury scoffed and nudged the man with his elbow, to which Kendal simply narrowed his eyes further in challenge.

  Bursbury regarded MacKenzie. “I have rather an odd question for you. Does Lady Oakhurst’s gout still plague her?”

  That was indeed an odd question. But the man did mean to sponsor MacKenzie for a seat in parliament. And answering questions of Gemma’s gout was preferable to any conversation MacKenzie might have with Lady Judith.

  “Aye, she’s been in pain with it since my arrival two days prior,” MacKenzie replied. “Why do ye ask?”

  “I might have a way to ease her discomfort.” Bursbury smiled broadly at him.

  “You know about gout?” Kendal asked in a bored drawl.

  “No, not me.” Bursbury gazed out of the sea of faces and beamed as his eyes alighted on his focus of attention. “But she does.”

  MacKenzie followed his gaze to the woman who had entered the ball so late. Her arms were folded over her chest and she looked quite misplaced. But how could a woman like her not fit in at a ball?

  “Who is she?” MacKenzie queried.

  “My daughter,” Bursbury replied with a proud grin. “Come, I’ll make the necessary introductions.”

  “Are ye trying to play matchmaker?” MacKenzie eyed the man warily.

  “Not with that one.” Kendal considered the woman from across the room. “She refuses to marry anyone.”

  Bursbury shrugged with indifference, and despite MacKenzie’s better judgement, he found himself being led in the direction of the most beautiful woman in the room.

  MacKenzie definitely should have known better.

  Penelope remembered why she hated balls. The constant chatter around her, the watered-down lemonade that left an unpleasant tartness lingering at the back of her tongue, the prowling dandies on the lookout for a woman to bail them out of their debts. The list was endless.

  Obliviously, her mother spoke excitedly with a woman, both of whom paused periodically to laugh at some jest. Penelope suppressed a sigh to avoid appearing rude. But she wanted to sigh. A great, heaving exhale that would billow the ridiculous feathers of the turban of the woman in front of her. More than that, Penelope longed to scream.

  It was all so unfair that she had to be here in a ridiculous gown she’d let her mother dress her in to find a husband she did not care for. She wished to be home in the quiet comfort of her library with a stolen glass of brandy in hand as she pored over medical texts.

  Her heart crumpled at the reality of the situation. For it had not been a week for Dr. Bailey to make good on this threat. It had taken only two days. Dr. Cooper had sent a formal letter to Penelope excusing her from her volunteer duties at St. Thomas’s.

  Dr. Cooper had also seen to it that no other hospital would allow her to volunteer either. Which left the home for wounded soldiers as the only source of medical aid she could offer. It was run by Mr. Graston, a Waterloo soldier she had aided in recovering from his time at Bedlam. They had been friends ever since. Most of the veteran soldiers at the home he ran required little assistance, if any at all.

  This time, Penelope did sigh. The plumes on the turban of the woman in front of her ruffled in agitation.

  “You’re far too pretty to be sequestered with us old women.” The words were voiced from beside Penelope.

  She turned to find an older woman in a wheeled chair. The woman’s face was familiar. Perhaps one of her mother’s friends?

  The lavender gown she wore bespoke of half mourning and her propped foot indicated something Penelope knew quite well. Gout.

  “I’m not one for dancing,” Penelope confessed.

  “Nor am I.” The woman indicated her propped leg. “At least, not anymore.”

  “Might I ask what it is that troubles you?” Penelope asked, though she was certain she already knew.

  “Simply an affliction of an old woman.” The lady waved her hand, indic
ating she had no wish to discuss it further.

  Drat. It had been over a week since Penelope had been able to attend the hospital. She knew she would miss it, but hadn’t anticipated how much it would dig at her very soul.

  “Where is your husband?” the woman asked.

  Penelope kept from grimacing. “I am unwed.”

  The woman tilted her head up to Penelope. “How are you not yet married, my dear?”

  From a conversation of interest to the most loathsome question in the world. Penelope did her best not to wilt under the inquiry.

  “Forgive me,” Penelope said politely. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  “Lady Oakhurst,” the woman said apologetically. “Do forgive me for my poor manners. I’m old and ill and could not help but approach when I saw you standing alone. You’re far too lovely to be off the dance floor, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Penelope’s cheeks flushed with heat at Lady Oakhurst’s effusive demeanor.

  “I confess, I had a selfish reason for approaching you as well.” Lady Oakhurst gave Penelope a coy smile. “My grandson is in town, you see. The Earl of Oakhurst. Perhaps you’ve met him already?”

  Ah, a grandmother set on finding her grandson a wife. No doubt Penelope’s mother would find herself in a similar circumstance one day. If Penelope’s sister, Eugenia, wed and had children. For Penelope certainly would not.

  “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Lord Oakhurst,” she replied.

  “Lord Oakhurst, you say?” Penelope’s father came around, grinning at her. “Imagine the luck of it, I have him right here.”

  “Oh.” Penelope stammered. “How…delightful.”

  A man appeared beside her father, standing at almost the same height. His hair was immaculately combed with the exception of a lock that fell over his forehead. He eyed her not with interest, as did most men, but with an element of wariness.

  Interesting.

  “Lord Oakhurst, may I present my daughter, Lady Penelope.” Lord Bursbury winked at her as if he was not offering her up on a platter to be sent off for marriage.