Page 23 of The Duke
“But your arm,” Imogen couldn’t stop herself from protesting. “The pain will be unimaginable once the Laudanum we’ve already administered completely wears off. Worse than it is now. You’ll want to take all precaution against it.” It must be pain causing him to act like this. For he was not the Trenwyth she remembered.
His eyes were slivers of disdain when he looked at her again. “I don’t have toimaginewhat it’ll be like. Think you I’m afraid of pain?”
Imogen pictured the many scars and wounds that, even now, turned his entire topography into a map of torment. Of course, after being through so much, how could he possibly remain unchanged?
“No, Your Grace, but perhaps something topical? I could—”
“You’ve done enough. Get out.”
Longhurst took a protective step toward her, his brows drawn down with mystification. “Your Grace?”
“Everyone.Out.” The teacup William had returned to his tray shattered on the wall above her head, showering her with lukewarm droplets. “Get me O’Mara,” Trenwyth roared, upsetting his tray with one powerful swipe.
Molly shrieked and fled to the hall.
As Longhurst and William surged forward to subdue the furious duke, Fowler grabbed a speechless Imogen by her elbow and dragged her into the hall.
“Pack your things, Miss Pritchard, you no longer work for St. Margaret’s Royal Hospital.”
Still too stunned for words, she blinked dumbly up into the bags drooping from Fowler’s bitter eyes for a moment too long. “But… what have I done?”
“You are being dismissed for gross insubordination.” Hiss’s protracted like that of a viper as though he took reptilian pleasure in the words.
“You mean with the duke?”
“You were told to leave it alone, to leave him alone, and you deliberately went behind my back and convincedLonghurstto perform a procedure without my permission.”
“But he survived because of that,” she argued.
“Doesn’t matter, what if the next patient dies because you now think that since you were right the once, you know more than the attending physicians? The London medical community is already afflicted with too many angels of death, Nurse Pritchard, we don’t need one more.”
He referred, of course, to the nurses who often euthanized their terminally or chronically ill patients. Some called them angels. Others called them murderers.
She was neither.
“Please, Dr. Fowler,” she begged. “I’ve never done anything like that. This is the first and—I promise—the only time I’ve ever disobeyed an order. I won’t do it again. I swear. Just don’t let me go. I have a family to support.”
“You should have thought of them before you made a fool of me.” He released her roughly and she stumbled. “Molly, fetch me all the orderlies and nurses on the floor. We’ll need help subduing Trenwyth, and someone will need to escort Miss Pritchard off the premises.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Molly cast her an unpleasant look as she scrambled to comply.
Imogen’s eyes latched onto Lord Anstruther’s door down the hall. “Can I at least be permitted to say good-bye to—”
“You will be permitted to do what you like, Miss Pritchard, so long as it’s not on these premises.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to plead for mercy. “Before you ask, don’t even consider requesting references, as none will be forthcoming. Good day to you, Miss Pritchard.” He substituted “miss” for “nurse,” making it clear that it was no longer her title.
Oh God, nothing had at all gone as she’d hoped or as she’d feared. Her greatest fear should not have been that Trenwyth remembered her.
It should have been that he’d not recognize her at all.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Imogen didn’t remember that she’d abandoned her things in her cupboard at the hospital until halfway through her shift at the Bare Kitten. She couldn’t even recall who’d escorted her out. She’d barely felt the chill of the misting rain until she’d wandered the streets for an hour. Incredulity had given way to numbness, and then despair. She couldn’t bring herself to return home. Couldn’t watch her mother try to keep the house and cook the meals and do the shopping on rheumatic knees that no longer wanted to work. Couldn’t watch her sister, dear, pretty Isobel, try to make herself look presentable for school and tell her that she might just have to go to the factory instead. She couldn’t face her failure in their eyes. She’d saved the life of a wealthy, ungrateful duke and, in doing so, lost the only income that kept them afloat. It amazed her how short a distance it was from St. Margaret’s in the West End to the Bare Kitten on St. James’s Street, and yet, how they seemed to occupy separate worlds.
Her world was only this now, Imogen thought as she looked around the dingy opulence of the place she loathed. Sweeping rubbish and a broken glass from the disgusting floor, she did her very best not to resent everyone and everything. Her father, for leaving them in this diminished position. Her sister for being younger and innocent and in need of protection. Her mother for being feeble and ill and reliant upon her. Dr. Fowler for his irrational ego and damnable pride. Trenwyth for making love to her. For making her care for him. For not recognizing her.
And most of all, herself. Because, regardless of everything, this was her fault.
“While you’re down there on your hands and knees, why don’t you clean this with your mouth?” the drunken man who’d broken the glass suggested as he cupped himself lewdly. His companions erupted into hilarity disproportionate to the wit, as a table of drunken men was wont to do.
