You Again (11 page)

He must be Mr. Redcliff, her patient. 

"Worth, what the devil is—?"  He never finished his sentence.  Eyes the color of a wintry lake turned on Georgiana and a frown clouded his brow.  The subtle shift of a few facial muscles stripped away his beauty.  If a single look could kill, she'd have icicles as sharp as daggers protruding from her forehead.  No, make that her entire body, for he swiftly took in every inch of her person from her brown hair to her best kid leather half-boots.

It gave her a moment to inspect him in return.  And that's when she saw the shadows dwelling beneath his eyes and cheeks, starkly offset against the grayish pallor of his skin.  He also seemed to be holding himself still, to contain the nausea perhaps.  Even with these tell-tale signs of an opium smoker, he was a breathtaking sight.  Quite literally.  Georgiana's lungs constricted.  She made a conscious effort to breathe, and smile. 

"Miss Georgiana Appleby, sir," Worth said with unflappable civility. 

Mr. Redcliff raised one dark and imperious eyebrow at her.  "
You're
the nursemaid?"  A deep rumbling began low in his broad chest and she realized he was laughing.  But the twisted grin that accompanied it was more gruesome than joyful.  "He sent a little chit like
you
?"  His disbelief was a common reaction, however few of her patients had ever stated it quite so baldly. 

"You were expecting someone else?" she asked.

He looked her over again but he kept his face shuttered, closed.  She had no idea what he saw, but she was quite sure he would not see the real Georgiana.  That woman was well hidden beneath the brown cotton dress re-made from one her mother had worn years ago.  "I was expecting someone...matronly," he said.  His level gaze met hers once more.  "You don't quite measure up."

She touched her waist then promptly dropped her hand.  As long as he was referring to her smallish size and nothing else then there was no cause for alarm.  There was certainly no hint of desire in his eyes, nothing to indicate he saw beyond the old-fashioned dress and her uncurled hairstyle.  Indeed there was no hint of anything at all. 

"I might not live up to your idea of a nursemaid," she said, "but that could be because I am not one.   Sir Oswyn Crisp sent me to help in any way I can.  I have experience—."

"I know all about your
experience
."  This last was said with a derisive lift of his top lip.

Georgiana bit her own lip and fought down panic.  He'd investigated her?  For a man who had worked as a spy it was to be expected but still it made her blood pound in her ears and her throat tighten.  It was bad enough that Sir Oswyn knew her secret and was using it against her but to have her patient know too could prove devastating.  He too could use it—to get rid of her—and then where would she be?

At Sir Oswyn's mercy.  And he was a man without that commodity.

Her reputation would be ruined, her career would perish and so would her livelihood.  She could not afford to fail.

"My reputation has preceded me?" she prompted, attempting as light a tone as she could given she felt so heavy all of a sudden.  "Please tell me more, I'm intrigued."  Intrigued to know how much he'd learned.

He studied her in that unnerving, expressionless way.  Did the man ever show emotion?  "Your father was a physician who specialized in curing opium addicts.  You followed in his footsteps and have had many successes in the last few years.  You reside in Oxfordshire with a maid and have become known in medical circles as tenacious."

She waited but he said nothing more.  She breathed again.  It would seem he didn't know anything further about her.  Didn't know about the patient she'd lost thanks to her inability to leave emotions out of her work. 

She'd learned her lesson and hadn't once re-crossed that line.  Nor would she again.  Not that Sir Oswyn cared about her resolution, nor would anyone else if that devious little weasel leaked the story.  They'd not see past her indiscretion—it was a rather large one and did tend to block one's view. 

All she had to do to keep the secret buried was fulfill this one contract.  Sir Oswyn had been crystal clear about that.

"May we speak, Mr. Redcliff?"

He crossed his arms and somehow filled the space within the door frame even more.  "Not now.  I'm leaving."

"Then perhaps we can discuss our...business on your way out.  I'll be brief and I'm sure the servants will enjoy the entertainment."

Redcliff's eyes narrowed and his shoulders squared but otherwise there was no sign that her words had disturbed him.  She was beginning to think he would be perfectly content to have the entire household hear what she had to say. 

But then he nodded, so slightly she almost missed it.  "Thank you, Worth, that will be all."  The butler bowed and Redcliff moved aside. 

Georgiana stepped into his study.  A mahogany desk stood near one of the large arched windows, its polished surface reigned over by a bronze bust of a Roman emperor wearing a crown of leaves.  A gilt and bronze candlestick and writing implements surrounded sheets of paper that seemed to be organized into a disorderly mess from what she could see.

The dark grain of the desk was in stark contrast to the white marble of the fireplace and the gilded circle of interlocked leaves painted on the ceiling.  It was these feminine touches and the fact that the room was located on the second floor that led her to believe it had once been the bedchamber of the lady of the house.  It overlooked Mount Street and the grand colonnaded residences opposite.  The sunny spring afternoon had drawn elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen out of their houses and they strolled arm in arm or rode high on springy phaetons.  How soothing it must be to see such splendid sights every day.

"Don't concern yourself," he said, following her gaze.  "No one out there will be able to see your face clearly enough to identify you."

She frowned at him.  "I'm not concerned for my reputation, Mr. Redcliff."  Which of course was a lie.  Her reputation was everything.  Once that was lost, no one would trust her and without that trust, she had no career.  It would not do to let Mr. Redcliff sense her fear, however.  If he saw a single chink in her armor he would take the upper hand and render her impotent.  To cure him she needed to be the stronger of the two, virtually indestructible.

Ordinarily she would have brought her maid to London with her but Esme had come down with a rattling cough and was in no fit state to travel.  Her illness had been a blow and Georgiana had tried to cancel her contract.  That's when Sir Oswyn Crisp had informed her he would savage her reputation by leaking her secret—her terrible, fatal secret—to those who might wish to employ her in the future. 

She couldn't refuse. 

But now that she stood in the presence of her disarmingly handsome patient, she wished she could walk away.  The last time Esme stayed home, Georgiana had made the mistake that had resulted in her current precarious situation. 

"You may not be concerned for your reputation but I am concerned for mine," he said without a hint of humor.  "Please sit, Miss Appleby, and let me explain the situation to you."

The situation was as clear as crystal to Georgiana but she obliged him anyway and sat in one of the deep leather armchairs bracketing the fireplace.  She had the disturbing feeling of being swallowed by the large piece of furniture.  Redcliff sat on the stiff-backed chair at his desk, stretched out his long, elegant legs and crossed his ankles, looking every bit as if he was in charge of the situation.

So she prodded the conversation into a different direction from the one he no doubt intended.  "Your arm appears to move easily enough," she said, focusing on her work rather than the narrowed eyes that watched her every move.  "Does it still hurt?"

He rolled his right shoulder.  "Not much."

"And the gash at the back of your head?"

"Is healing."

"Good.  So your memory has improved?" 

"No."

A conversation with a stone would have been less one-sided.  She preferred to ease them both into the new situation and get to know her patient a little first but Redcliff left her with no option but to confront him in the most direct way.  "Since you are no longer in any great pain, there is no reason to continue to smoke opium is there?"

He went very still again, as if bracing himself.  Only a small muscle pulsed high in his cheek.  The room suddenly felt cooler beneath that glacial stare.  "I need it to help me sleep.  I suffer from headaches and insomnia."  His tone was as hard and flat as flint.

"The headaches could be from the opium."  Sir Oswyn had already informed her that Redcliff smoked the powder to help him sleep.  A deep slumber meant no nightmares.  Unlike most of her patients, Redcliff wasn't taking the opium to ease the pain of his injuries.  Sir Oswyn had made that point clear.  However, Redcliff
was
smoking it to ease another sort of pain.  A pain that was far deeper, and far more difficult to heal than a physical one.  Discovering and treating the source of it would hopefully cure his need for opium.

If only he would let her.

"You only take it at night?" she asked.

He sat back and regarded her through lazy, heavy-lidded eyes.  "This conversation is unnecessary.  My usage is limited and hardly a problem.  I'm a picture of health, wouldn't you say?"

She most certainly would say.  He looked strong and fit, his athletic legs displayed in all their perfection beneath tight, buff-colored breeches.  And then there were those wide, wide shoulders.  He was all long, lean lines with a hint of power in the parts of him that were exposed to her scrutiny—the strong fingers, the firm jaw and the determined brow.  Indeed he looked extraordinarily...healthy. 

Except for the shadows in the hollows of his face and the pallor marring his smooth skin.

He uncrossed his ankles, leaned forward and gave her a twisted grin.  "Or would you like to give me a
thorough
inspection to satisfy yourself?" 

To her utter dismay, her face heated.  But from fury not embarrassment.  Redcliff was doing everything in his power to unnerve her, undermine her confidence...and she would not allow it. 

But before she could think of a suitably cutting retort, he spoke.  "Why, Miss Appleby, you blush!  I hope I haven't offended your sensibilities with my coarseness."

She smiled thinly.  "Since your coarseness is simply a weapon of self-defense, Mr. Redcliff, I am not offended.  I know you don't mean to be vulgar.  In fact, I'm told you're quite pleasant when you want to be.  At least you used to be."

That wiped the mocking smile from his eyes.  Unfortunately what replaced it was pure ice.   "Sir Oswyn said that did he?  And is that why he sent you?  To return me to the pleasantly amenable diplomat I once was?"  When she merely shrugged he went on.  "Well, Miss Appleby,
is
that why he employed a mere slip of a woman like you?"

It was a common enough question—most of her patients expected a man, and a qualified physician at that.  On the other hand, few qualified physicians saw the use of opium as a problem.  Many prescribed it for pain relief.  Only Georgiana's father and a handful of others understood the long-term damage it did to mind and body.  She'd continued his work after his death because, quite simply, what else could a woman in her late twenties with no allowance and no one to support her do to keep poverty at bay?  Besides, she liked being useful and she liked helping people, even those who weren't always aware they needed help.

"He commissioned me because he believes I can cure you of your addiction," she said.  "It's as simple as that."

"Is it?  The opium helps me sleep and sleep helps me to function, not the opposite.  Have you asked yourself why Sir Oswyn would want me working at less than my best?"  His blue eyes drilled into her.  Challenging.  Testing?  "I've also given my resignation.  Did he tell you that?"

He had not.  It would seem Sir Oswyn hadn't been entirely honest about everything.  She was not surprised.

"So why send you at all?"  Mr. Redcliff's question echoed her own thoughts.  "That, Miss Appleby, is what you should be asking."

"Perhaps he is concerned for your welfare," she said.  Redcliff snorted.  "As your employer he is, after all, responsible for your addiction."

"He is not."

"Oh?"  She raised an eyebrow but he offered no more on the matter.  "Let me tell you some things you may not know about opium, Mr. Redcliff, and then you can tell me if Sir Oswyn doesn't have your best interests at heart.  Because he knows as well as I do that there are severe side-effects of smoking or eating the powder.  It can cause breathing difficulties.  It numbs the mind.  You might be simply taking it to help you sleep now but soon you'll find you need to smoke more and more to help you fall asleep, and that's when the problems will really start."