Page 44 of The Wolf of Mayfair
“My lord,” the doctor greeted. He set his black medical bag down on the Louis XVI bedside table with its butterfly veneer. “If you would—”
“I’m not leaving,” he snapped.
The last time he’d done so, one of the more contumelious fellows had stuck several of those bloodsucking leeches on her wrist.
This latest physician proved just as insolent. “It would be best—”
Wingrave leveled Hembly with a single black look that managed to effectively quell those objections.
Dr. Hembly flushed and cleared his throat. “Very well.”
Through this latest examination, Wingrave stood as the same silent sentry he’d been during the six others she’d endured.
The young doctor gently lifted Helia’s flaccid hand in one of his and touched two middle fingers to the place at the center of her wrist.
All the while, Wingrave stared intently at her. Against his better judgment, he’d allowed the minx to remain until the storm broke. And what had she done? She’d gone out in that blasted storm, and would now get herself killed for that carelessness.
His fingers curled tightly into his palms, his nails leaving familiar impressions upon the flesh.
After an infernally long examination, Dr. Hembly made a clucking sound with his tongue and shook his head regretfully.
Sparks of red rage dotted Wingrave’s vision. “For the love of God, man. You aren’t a damned chicken. Words. Use words.”
Wingrave had never been known for his patience, and with Helia Wallace of Scotland dying in his household, he’d even less of thatvirtuenow.
The physician flushed red and lowered Helia’s palm back to her side. “The lady is weak, my lord. By everything reported to me by your housekeeper at my arrival, and based on my own evaluation here, I do not expect she can last much longer.”
Wingrave knew as much, and had been expecting such a prognosis from the doctor. And yet, even so, the muscles of his gut clenched like he’d taken a fist to them.
“She’s not to die,” he said on an icy whisper. He had the loss of his brother on his soul; he’d not add the chipper, cheerful Miss Helia Wallace to the list of his blacker sins. “I don’t care what you do, but you are to save her.”
A somber Dr. Hembly inclined his head. “In speaking to Mrs. Trowbridge, I understand you are opposed to bleeding the young lady.”
Opposed? More like, he’d cut off the hand of the man who thought to employ that useless medical technique upon her and inflict a different type of bleeding upon a person.
“However,” the doctor went on, and that single word quelled Wingrave’s last hope of a physician being able to help her, “I am afraid the only course is to ble—”
“Finish the thought, and I’ll finish you.” Wingrave issued that threat on a deep, velvety purr.
The doctor frowned. “My lord,” he persisted. “I understand you are opposed to bleeding the young woman; however, it is the only course of treatment that may save her.”
“And you finished the thought,” he said, with a cheer to rival Helia’s.
Paling, Hembly took several quick steps away, proving himself not a complete lackwit. “My lord, it is a tried-and-true method we employ for all number of illnesses and ailments.”
“Sucking the lifeblood from a person hardly seems like it would be bolstering to their health.”
Dr. Hembly pounced on that. “On the contrary. The illness is in her blood, and the only way to draw out the illness is by drawing out the poisoned blood.”
“By that logic, wouldn’t all her blood be poisoned and the only way to rid it of illness would be to remove all of the sickened blood?”
That gave the other man pause. Several lines creased Hembly’s brow in a palpable confusion. “I ... It is the only way,” he finally said. “The hope is that we may draw out enough of the poisoned blood so that the healthy fluid might then, in turn, exceed the pois—”
Wingrave growled. “Say the word ‘poisoned’ one more time.”
This time, more wisely, the other man shut his demmed mouth.
Hembly bowed his head. “Forgive me, my lord. If I am not allowed to perform the treatment I believe the lady requires, I cannot be of any further assistance to you.”
