The Greatest of Sins Page 11

  This was the Sam that she remembered, always daring her to be reckless.

  But the girl he’d left was gone. She had banished her tonight and vowed to be different. There would be no more visits to the garden, no dabbling in medicine, no more nonsense and foolishness.

  Evie Thorne might have allowed these kisses and encouraged this man to pull her down into the grass and do what he would with her. But the future Duchess of St Aldric must not.

  She yanked her arm out of Sam’s grip, pulled back and let fly with a slap that was worthy of any she’d dealt him as a child, the sort that had sent him to Father over the unfairness of a gender that would taunt him unmercifully while knowing he could not strike back.

  He pulled away from her, hand on his cheek, shocked and angry.

  ‘I said no.’ She hardly recognised her own voice. It sounded low, powerful and humourless. It was the voice of a woman, not a girl. It was a voice to be obeyed. She stared him down, unflinching, and watched the anger change to wariness.

  ‘Evie?’ he said, with a wry smile.

  ‘I think it best that you refer to me as Lady Evelyn,’ she said. ‘As you have been doing since your return. You will take no more liberties with me, in public or in private. In turn, I will be polite and respectful, for Michael’s sake. But if you cannot abide these terms, our previous connection will not matter, nor your kinship with the duke. You will not be welcome in my home and in public I shall cut you dead.’ Aunt Jordan would have been proud of the speech. It was just as it should have been, when one had given offence to this degree.

  But the look on Sam’s face was heartbreaking. At least she would have the satisfaction of knowing that she had been right in bringing forth the truth. The careworn look that had troubled her was gone from his face, but now he was staring at her as though he could not quite believe what he was hearing. He rubbed his jaw, feeling the tenderness where she had slapped him. ‘Why, Lady Evelyn, I do believe that you are serious.’

  ‘Of course I am serious, you cloth-headed dolt.’ It was a weak epithet that harkened back to the time when they were children. The words that suited him now—rake, seducer, villain—were ones she could not manage to say, even if they were true. ‘Unless you can manage to treat me with respect, there can be no more contact between us.’

  ‘Because you are betrothed to St Aldric.’ And now he looked as though he wanted to laugh.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, in frustration. Had she been wrong about him all along? Was her oldest friend and first love really so cruel as to mock her for behaving exactly as she should have from the first?

  ‘Very well, then.’ He was agreeing, but he continued to smile as though caught in some enormous joke. ‘I will treat you as I ought, with respect. But not because of your precious Michael. I will do it so that you may see how empty simple courtesy is, compared to our true feelings for each other.’ He reached out a single finger and touched her cheek.

  And she swore she could feel every touch he had given her in the garden and taste his kiss on her lips.

  ‘In a week, you will be begging me to take you away from him. And I will have mercy on you and do it. I have fought battles to resist you that render your engagement to the duke insignificant. And I have lost every one of them. We belong together, Evie. For better or worse.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Sam entered the duke’s London home with the sort of grim resignation he saved for delivering bad news to patients. He had received the invitation with indifference and refused it out of hand. But after his talk with Evie, he reconsidered. She would likely be attending as well. Since she did not intend to see him alone, he had best take any opportunity offered to be in the same room with her.

  And perhaps a small show of co-operation on his part would sate St Aldric’s desire to know him better. He had stopped Sam again, before his exit from the Thorne home, to renew his offers of aid, advancement or at the very least a good meal. It appeared that the duke meant to badger him non-stop until he had made a brother of him.

  Sam could halt such efforts in their tracks by announcing that his plans to seduce the man’s fiancée would make friendship difficult, but such honesty was more likely to reduce his contact with Evie than increase it. He had always thought himself a moral man, other than the repellent desire to bed his own sister, which put him square on the road to damnation. But now that his love was proved innocent, it appeared that he was capable of covetousness, duplicity and any number of other vices, if it helped him gain her back.

  He would not hurt her, of course. But he would not have to. It would take only the smallest of nudges and she would drop the plan to marry another, and come running back into his arms. Then things would finally be as they had been meant to be, from the first.

  Tonight, she was playing right into his hands. The duke must have informed Evie of Sam’s reticence. This morning, he’d another visit from Tom the footman and a terse note from Evie, reminding him of his promise to help her with this match. Unless Sam wanted to make the breach between them plain to St Aldric and answer the questions that would follow, he must put on a smile, come to dinner and prove that he had accepted the new boundaries of their friendship.

  He had jotted down a hurried answer. The fact that she had set boundaries did not mean that he must be contained by them. When he had encouraged her to marry, he had not been in full possession of the facts.

  When he had realised that he could offer no other explanation than that, he had ripped the paper to bits. Some things must wait until they were alone and face to face. Perhaps, by then, he would have come up with a better answer than this, for it sounded weak, even to him.

  Instead, he had written a single line of assent to her and another to St Aldric. He would go to dinner and make nice, as long as it suited him to do so. If an opportunity presented itself to further his plans for Evie, he would take it and boundaries be damned.

  But now, he was rethinking his plan. His first impression on arrival at St Aldric’s home, was that his rival had him hopelessly outgunned. The house where their father had lived was magnificent. Everything about it was larger, more ornate and superior to the Thorne town house. The ceilings were higher, the carpets deeper and the furniture glowed with a patina of age and privilege. There were likely several other properties even larger, scattered about the country.

  Sam thought back for a moment to the little cabin in the bulkhead of the Matilda, with its brass fittings and worn wood desk. He had been quite proud of it. It was a symbol of that most cherished thing aboard ships, privacy. To have one’s own space was a luxury.

  But this house was full: of people, of servants, of responsibility. Was the duke ever truly alone? If not, then Sam would not envy him. Nor would Sam envy him for Evie, who, despite what The Times might say, would never truly belong to St Aldric. She loved Sam. And he had no reason not to love her back.

  Nearly four-and-twenty hours later, that fact still took him unawares and brought a smile to his face. The identity of his father and his connection to this great house were incidental, compared to the broken link to Lord Thorne. He was free to love Evie. There was justice in the world, after all.

  ‘Welcome.’ St Aldric was striding out into the hall to meet him, as though he did not trust the butler to deliver Sam the last few feet to the place where guests were gathering for the meal. ‘I am pleased that you managed to break your other engagement and attend. I hope it did not cause difficulty.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Sam said. They both knew he had lied. But if the duke wished to pretend it had been true, then so would he.

  Now the great man sat at the head of the table, and a fine table it was. The silver was heavy and the knives so sharp he might have performed surgery with them. The crystal was delicate and the wines superb. The linen under it all was whiter than Sam had ever seen, and monogrammed at the corner with the family crest.

  His family crest, Sam thought distantly. And mine. If St Aldric still wanted to claim him, when all was said and don
e, there might be advantages to allying himself with his true father’s house. They would not outweigh his love for Evelyn, of course. Until she cried off, he and St Aldric were at war.

  But if they battled tonight, at least it would be in good company. Along with Evie and her father, there was a bishop, a cabinet minister and his wife, and several young ladies and gentlemen of excellent breeding and manners.

  Seated next to him was Lady Caroline … something or other. It did him no credit that he was thinking of Evie during the introduction and now could not remember the woman’s name. St Aldric had given him a significant look, as though assuring him that this was an excellent match, should he pursue it.

  As if the girl would want anything to do with him. Or he her. He could choose his own wife. In fact, he had made his choice already, though he doubted that St Aldric would approve of it.

  Evie was giving no outward sign that she remembered their last meeting. She was too smart to think that he would give her up without a fight, but apparently she awaited his next move. She treated him with courtesy and charm, just as she did the other guests. She was as glittering as the ring on her hand and as gracious as a duchess, listening attentively to the conversation around her, contributing intelligently and hanging on every word that the duke spoke.

  And damn the man if he was not worth listening to. He was polite, witty and intelligent. He responded to debate with a cool rationality that won the point more often than it lost. He did not allow his head to be clouded by his own rank and people’s instinctive deference to it.

  Worst of all, he had announced to the others at the gathering that there was a connection between them. He told all who would listen that Sam was a ‘distinguished physician’ and that they ‘shared a father.’ He acted as though the sudden appearance of a bastard brother was the best imaginable news.

  It was maddening. What could Sam possibly say that could distinguish himself to Evie? And now St Aldric was questioning him about his profession, making an effort to draw him into the conversation and phrasing questions so that Sam could display his skill without seeming boastful.

  It was artfully done. He’d have been most grateful if he hadn’t already hated the man. There was no way to bring him down a notch, nor could Sam think of a way to raise himself in the eyes of his beloved. And then, as did all conversations that touched on medicine and care, someone enquired about poor Princess Charlotte.

  Inwardly, he flinched. It was a doctor’s worst nightmare to be put in care of a beloved member of the royal family, only to manage the birth so badly as to lose both the patient and the unborn child. His usual plan was to have as little opinion as possible, so as not to offend. But then, in a flash of insight, he saw the direction the conversation would likely go, if he but let it alone. ‘I would not dare to make a judgement without being in the room for the birth. There can frequently be complications that are not apparent until labor has begun. But I think the subsequent suicide of the attending physician speaks for how deeply he felt.’

  ‘He should not have been involved at all,’ Evelyn said, with no attempt at diplomacy.

  Sam was eager to see what would happen next. It had been so long since he’d shared one, he’d forgotten that a dinner with Evie was often more diverting than a night at the theatre. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the engagement. And at less than a day, her plan to be a suitable wife to St Aldric had lasted longer than he’d have wagered.

  Her blunt statement caused the rest of the table to fall silent in shock. While ladies no doubt had an opinion about such things, they certainly did not voice them with such can-dour in mixed company. But Evie was not just any lady, thought Sam, and did his best to hide his smile. She had a smattering of medical training and strong feelings on the subject of obstetrics.

  ‘And who would you recommend be at her side at such a time,’ St Aldric asked, ‘if not a trusted family physician?’ The smile he gave her was more indulgent than critical and more patient than many men would be.

  But Evie would see nothing but the criticism. ‘I suspect a midwife would have done just as well,’ she said, chin up in a posture that Sam recognised as a warning sign that she was prepared to fight all who might disagree.

  St Aldric continued to smile at her, but glanced at Sam as though expecting an ally. ‘It appears that my betrothed does not think much of your profession.’

  Evie saved Sam the trouble of choosing a side by answering for herself. ‘It is not that I think less of Dr Hastings, or doctors in general. It is simply that I disagree with any man’s ability to fully understand birth and labor.’

  ‘They train at university, study texts and the work of experienced physicians,’ argued St Aldric. ‘I am sure they must learn sufficiently.’

  ‘Most texts are written by men. I doubt their competence in a process that they themselves cannot experience,’ Evie said solemnly.

  Her future husband could not help himself. He laughed out loud.

  For a moment, Sam felt sympathy with his newfound brother. The poor fellow could not have picked a better way to get on his beloved’s wrong side.

  ‘Furthermore,’ she announced over the sound of the duke’s mirth, ‘we would still have our dear princess, if the doctors had not been so ham-handed in their treatment of her.’

  It was quite possible that this was the case. It was not Sam’s place to question the practice of other doctors. He’d have come to the defence of his profession had it been any other evening. Tonight, he did not wish to cross Evie by disagreeing. The high road was diplomatic silence.

  But St Aldric was not aware of that. ‘What can you possibly know of such things, Evelyn? You are but a maid, after all.’ It was an honest question, but it sounded almost like he was questioning her virtue.

  It was like watching a man dig his own grave.

  Sam saw the increasingly mutinous glint in her eyes as she readied her argument. ‘I have been present at any number of deliveries when we are in the country,’ she announced. ‘I have also read the texts that they use at university. In comparison, I studied the techniques of the village midwives and aided them in their work. They now deem me so proficient that I can manage all but the most difficult deliveries before calling for a doctor.’

  Around the table there were giggles and gasps. The good Lady Caroline blushed and the bishop on her other side blanched white.

  Just as he remembered her, Evie was unaffected by approval or disapproval. When she was truly set in a course, she would not be moved. Her animosity forgotten, she looked to Sam as though conferring with a colleague. ‘I would not attempt a Caesarean, of course. But neither would you, I wager, unless you were sure that there was little to no hope that the mother would be alive to see the birth.’

  ‘They seldom survive the operation,’ he agreed. ‘But perhaps at table is not the best place—’

  ‘From what I understand, the physician in residence bled Princess Charlotte for months and starved her instead of feeding her up stout. Then he left her to labor for days without so much as ergot to hurry things along.’

  As a physician, he could not contradict what she said. She did not argue from ignorance on the subject. She had explored the techniques of both physician and midwife. He had been trained in only one and taught to ignore the other as inferior.

  ‘And the baby was breech. If the lady’s hips are small it is like trying to force a melon through a keyhole.’

  There a genteel squeak from one of the more impressionable ladies and a soft moan from Lord Thorne.

  ‘He did not use the forceps when he had the chance,’ she finished.

  ‘I thought you did not believe in such things,’ Sam supplied helpfully and waited for the fun to continue.

  ‘She should not even know what they are,’ St Aldric announced, trying to regain control of the conversation.

  Evie ignored him. ‘I said they were used too often. Not that they were totally useless,’ she said. ‘Although if you are skilled, it is possible to
turn the child without them.’

  ‘Is she in the habit of discussing such things with you?’ St Aldric demanded of Sam, going a bit white around the mouth. Sam wondered if he was still so eager to have a doctor in the family. He suspected that, when they had a chance to speak in private, he would be called to task for leading Evelyn astray.

  He took a sip of his wine. ‘I have not been in the country for years, your Grace. But Lady Evelyn has questioned me at length on the subject of medicine, since I have been home.’ Let the man think what he would of that. If he did not understand the risk of another man spending so much time with his future wife, then he deserved to lose her.

  ‘Is that what you talk about?’ St Aldric seemed honestly surprised at this. Had he expected the worst? And if so, why did he do nothing to prevent it?

  ‘We talk of other things as well, Michael,’ Evelyn said dismissively, totally ignorant of the duke’s jealousy.

  ‘You should not be talking of this under any circumstances,’ the bishop announced, no longer able to contain himself. ‘Nor should you doubt the superiority of men in all things, or worry overlong about alleviating the suffering of the childbed. It is woman’s lot, since the fall of Eve.’

  ‘But men are not superior in all things at all times,’ Evelyn said with a smile. ‘And my sympathies to my biblical namesake, but do you seriously believe that the Lord made women to suffer and then invented opiates to taunt us with the possibility of relief? I believe the Bible also says something about being stewards to the land. I assume that means that we are to make use of such natural palliatives when we find them.’

  Now her father was holding his head, as though he were experiencing a megrim. The lady at his side gave a little shriek of outrage. But the matron opposite Lord Thorne responded with a solemn nod of approval.

  ‘Evelyn.’ There was the faintest touch of warning in the duke’s tone, as though he thought that he could manage the sort of unspoken communication that one sometimes saw in couples whose hearts were beating in time.