Page 10 of Touched By a Traitor
“Hold him accountable for his false accusations and contract breach,” Andrew said, his fist clenching against his thigh as he spoke.
“You mean pursue legal action? Is such extreme action necessary?” For the first time, Daisy looked genuinely worried, her brow creasing as she reached out to touch his arm. “Andrew, I couldn’t bear it if this damaged your standing in society.”
Andrew’s expression hardened, his eyes flashing with protective fury. “He’ll whisper his doubts to every ear in London. Your reputation will be beyond salvation if we don’t fight with every weapon at our disposal.”
“I’m hardly concerned,” she murmured, though her fingers twisted anxiously in her skirts, betraying her words.
“A woman’s tainted reputation will poison your medical career. No one trusts a corrupted woman—especially other women,” Andrew said, his voice heavy with the weight of societal reality.
Daisy’s face crumpled, her composure finally breaking. “What medical career?” Bitterness laced her words, her voice cracking. “You’ve forbidden me from practice since the day I earned my license.” Her hands fell limp in her lap, defeat written in every line of her body.
The accusation hit home, and Andrew felt the familiar weight of guilt. “My investors are traditional men. I can’t have them questioning my principles. If you insist on practicing medicine, you’ll need your husband’s blessing.”
Daisy’s shoulders slumped, and for a moment she looked far younger than her years. “Can we weather such scandal? Taking him to court only draws more eyes to our shame.”
“You’ll be ruined regardless—Byron will see to that. A legal complaint paints us as victims of injustice. Once we engage a barrister, absolute truth becomes vital. You might as well start now and spare me the trouble. Is there anything you wish to confess about these accusations?”
“No. I’m innocent,” she declared firmly, meeting his gaze with renewed steel.
She held his stare steadily, but doubt gnawed at him. The memory of her forged signature and stolen seal on those papers to study under Dr. James Barry in Jamaica still haunted him. His brilliant, willful sister was capable of almost anything when her goals were threatened.
That evening, despite his weariness, Andrew hurried through London’s rain-slicked streets, his Hessians splashing through puddles. His mission—rescuing exploited courtesans on behalfof Madame Tansley’s rescue mission—couldn’t wait. Time was critical to identify any victims at the gentleman’s club near Inner Temple before they disappeared into the night.
He cursed softly upon entering the club’s ornate doorway. Late. Fisher, the butler, approached with reverence. “Lord Carlisle, might I be of assistance?”
“Quite all right.” Andrew forced pleasantry. “Have you noticed any unusually small or slight women?”
Fisher’s eyes widened marginally. “No, my lord. The ladies present are rather… substantial.”
Pressing a crisp note into Fisher’s palm, Andrew continued his search. These rescue missions for Madam Tansley had taught him strategy—listen for genuine merriment or troubling silence.
The east wing proved unremarkable, but an unnatural quiet pervaded the west. Concern mounting, Andrew seized a candlestick and affected an intoxicated weave. The first door revealed only startled faces through opium haze.
Muttering drunken apologies, he staggered to the second door, allowing his feigned unsteadiness to seem natural.
“Devil take you! This room is occupied!” a voice snapped, the speaker barely turning.
Darkness cloaked the chamber until Andrew raised his candle, revealing a couple in the far corner. The woman faced the wall, unnaturally still, while her companion stood partially disrobed in the flickering light.
The woman’s rigid posture and refusal to turn drew Andrew’s attention. He approached, lifting the light to better see the gentleman’s face.
“Chatham?” He recognized the duke’s distinctive rings.
The man turned further, eyes widening. “Carlisle! What devil’s madness brings you bursting in? Lost your companion?”
“My deepest apologies, Your Grace. I search for her, though I’ve forgotten her name.”
Andrew strained to glimpse the woman concealed behind the duke. “She bears a striking resemblance to your companion. Miss, might I see your face?”
“I assure you, Carlisle, this isn’t your lady. She’s been in my company this hour past.”
Her reluctance to reveal herself only fueled Andrew’s unease. “Miss, I mean no harm. Your Grace, would you step aside?”
As Chatham moved with reluctance, the woman turned. The candlelight caught porcelain skin and dark eyes that seemed to pierce Andrew’s very soul. Time stopped, the world narrowing to her face alone. His knees nearly buckled with the shock of recognition.
In those first years after her departure, she had haunted his dreams relentlessly. He’d searched for her in every passing face, his heart leaping at each dark-haired figure that crossed his path, chasing phantoms born of desperate hope.
Time had eventually dulled her image to a watercolor memory, details lost to the years. But now, standing before him in flesh and blood, there was no doubt. This was no trick of grief-addled imagination.
