ORANGE JUMBLES
Mixe a cup of Flower with Almonds ground fine and Sugar, then add two spoones of grated rinde of Oranges and Salt. Rub in some Butter and binde with beaten whites of two Egges. When smooth, make into pieces and roll each out in the shape of an S. Bake on a greased tin until browne and golden.
This receipt has been in our family for a very long time. They are a homely sort of biscuit, good for taking to ailing villagers or anyone you like to make comfortable.
—Lady Diana Caldwell, 1689
JAMES HANDED the hopeful young woman a pencil and slid a piece of paper across the counter. "Write your name here, please, on line fourteen."
She squinted at the page.
"There," he elaborated, indicating the number 14.
She bit her lip and wrote an awkward X beside it.
The eleventh X on the page.
"Thank you," he said, suppressing a sigh, "but I don't believe you will find this position suitable."
Her shoulders slumped as she turned, and he wished he could help. The introduction of new machinery was causing massive unemployment all over England, but his concern about that problem didn't change the fact that he required an assistant who could read and write.
As she plodded out of the New Hope Institute, Juliana danced in, gave a jaunty wave toward the Chase carriage outside, and stuck her umbrella in the stand by the door.
It was Wednesday, and—James checked his pocket watch—precisely one o'clock. Having not seen Juliana since the dinner at Stafford House on Sunday, he'd been wondering if she would actually show up. As she walked toward him, her smile seemed to brighten the entire reception room, some feat considering his current mood.
Though it was raining outside—of course—she was wearing a thin, sunny yellow dress that did nothing to disguise her curves. Which meant it did nothing to help contain his ever-growing lust, either. The bodice was small, as usual, which made him envision her lovely breasts popping right out of it.
Bloody hell.
"Good afternoon," he said. "No Lady Frances?"
"Oh, she'd be bored, and she doesn't care for this neighborhood. Besides, this is hardly a situation that requires a chaperone." She seemed to be staring at the area below his throat. "The carriage will return for me at four o'clock. Why are you out here?" Raising her gaze to his face—with some effort, it appeared—she placed the basket she was carrying on the counter between them. "Shouldn't you be in one of the treatment rooms, giving vaccinations?"
"I'm interviewing for a new assistant." He gestured toward the HELP WANTED sign he'd once again placed in the window. "And playing the part of assistant myself until I find one."
"Did the last one you hired leave, then?"
"Yes. This morning." The pouring rain had kept a queue from forming all the way to Surrey today, but that also meant potential new employees were staying home. Juliana seemed to be waiting for an explanation, so he added, "She found herself with child unexpectedly."
"Unexpectedly? How can it be that a woman does what it takes to get a child without expecting to find herself with one?"
He knew quite a few ways, actually—he was a physician, after all—but he wouldn't explain them to an innocent young lady. Not even one unreserved enough to raise the question while wearing a dress with a tiny bodice and staring at the little bit of skin that was exposed where he'd left his top button undone.
"She has no husband," he said, unfastening a second button to see her reaction. "The father of her child cannot afford to support a wife."
"Oh." She looked a mite scandalized, but he wasn't sure whether to attribute that to his unbuttoning or to the news that his unwed assistant had got herself with child. "She must feel perfectly dreadful."
"Less dreadful, I expect, since I gave her fifty pounds and sent her off to get married."
Her entire face lit up. "Then she won't have to give her child to the Foundling Hospital. That was wonderful, James."
He hadn't been feeling very wonderful until now, but the admiration in her voice made him want to kiss her. Hell, the mere sight of her made him want to kiss her. The tiny bodice didn't help, and neither did her obvious interest in his bare skin. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing they were someplace besides the Institute.
Although it was probably best that they weren't.
"I brought you orange jumbles," she said, lifting the cloth that covered the basket to reveal biscuits that smelled almost as good as she did. "They're supposed to be good for the ailing." She glanced around the crowded reception area. "Though I suppose these people aren't ailing, really, are they?"
"My goal is to keep them from ailing."
"Yes, of course. Well, the jumbles are supposed to help keep one comfortable as well. Try one."
As he took one of the sweets—wondering if it was so apparent that he was uncomfortable—a woman and her newly vaccinated son walked out, the youngster sucking a sugar stick.
"Excuse me," James said and stepped from behind the counter. "Number forty-three!"
Another woman and her two children rose and followed him into the back. Taking the biscuit with him, he showed them to a treatment room. The orange jumble was crisp and tasted sweet and citrusy, but it wasn't comforting.
When he returned, Juliana was behind the counter, handing a number to a dripping family of four. "You're number fifty-seven," she said loudly and clearly. "Please be seated. Lord Stafford will call you when it's your turn."
James watched the family try and fail to find seats, then turned to Juliana. "I prefer to be called Dr. Trevor while I'm here. 'Lord Stafford' intimidates the patients."
"I'll try to remember that. There's a young woman waiting for an interview—I told her to sit until you were ready. Which of the treatment rooms shall I clean?"
"Pardon?"
"I came to clean treatment rooms, remember?" She pulled off her gloves. "I wore my oldest dress."
He eyed her oldest dress. It had a tiny bodice and looked no more shabby than the one she'd worn to his house for dinner, which meant, of course, that it didn't look shabby at all.
"What makes you think I would expect a lady to clean anything?" he asked. "The Stafford House maids take turns coming here to clean. Three times a week."
Her pretty brow creased. "Why did you tell Lady Amanda she could clean, then?"
He shrugged, remembering Lady Amanda's attitude at dinner. Very ladylike and rather snobbish. "I just wanted to see her reaction."
"Oh." Juliana looked thoughtful, or apprehensive—he wasn't sure which. "And what did you think of how she reacted?"
"Very much like a lady," he said, leaving out the word snobbish.
Now she looked relieved. "Amanda is very much a lovely lady," she said. "What shall you have me do if not clean treatment rooms?"
"You seem to make an excellent assistant. Why don't you keep doing that?"
She did prove to be an excellent assistant, which allowed him to vaccinate patients between interviewing candidates. Two hours later, the number of people in the reception room had dwindled to something approaching normal. The orange jumbles were all gone, and they'd indeed seemed to comfort some of the patients. People waiting to be infected tended to be somewhat nervous.
He'd talked to three more women who wanted the job, but they'd all been underqualified.
"The tasks aren't very difficult," Juliana said during a rare lull. Her gaze flicked toward his open collar and back up. "Why is it that you find it so hard to hire someone acceptable?"
"My assistant must be able to read and write."
"Many women can read and write—"
"But many of those don't need employment. Educated women are likely to have fathers or husbands to support them."
"Oh. I hadn't thought of that." She handed him the box of sugar sticks he'd asked her to fetch. "I shall screen the applicants for you and let you know if I find someone acceptable. That way you can keep administering vaccinations."
He wished he could find someone as efficient as Juliana. An hour later, she announced she'd found the perfect replacement, a young woman that Miss Smith, his last morning assistant, had apparently sent and recommended. All the supplies in the treatment rooms were restocked, the storage shelves were organized, Juliana had rewritten his scribbled July schedule in a neat, legible hand, and—in part thanks to the rain—only five patients were waiting for vaccinations.
Even better, it was now four o'clock, which meant his second-shift assistant had arrived, as well as two fresh physicians. He was free, and it was Wednesday, so Parliament wasn't in session. Juliana's carriage was due to return any moment, but she had no chaperone, for once. She was still glancing where his shirt was unbuttoned whenever she thought he wasn't looking.
Maybe he could get her alone someplace where he could kiss her, he thought as he followed her toward the door. Maybe he could talk her into going somewhere besides home.
She pulled on her gloves. "Will I see you at Almack's tonight?"
Somewhere besides Almack's.
The door opened, admitting two new patients, a footman in Chase livery, and a messenger boy. "Lord Stafford?" the messenger boy inquired.
"Yes." James took the note, broke the seal, and scanned the single page. "Damn."
"Is it something dreadful?" Juliana asked, splaying a gloved hand over her breasts in their tiny yellow bodice.
Which only made him notice them more. Hell. Was she trying to kill him?
"No. Aunt Bedelia fears some ailment and wishes to see me."
"I hope she'll turn out to be well."
"She will, I assure you. But I'm afraid I won't make it to Almack's tonight."
"It's only four o'clock. How long can it take to examine her?"
"Very long," he fibbed. "I fear Aunt Aurelia will wish to be examined, too."
"How very unfortunate." She sighed so prettily that her breasts rose and fell beneath their little yellow bodice. Apparently she was trying to kill him. She pulled her umbrella out of the stand. "Shall I see you at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday, then?"
There was no way his mother would accept an excuse for not attending the Billingsgate ball. His aunts would be there, after all, so he could hardly claim they'd summoned him to deal with imaginary aches and pains. "I'll be there," he promised.
It wasn't Almack's. And Juliana would be there, too. In another tiny bodice.
A pity he wouldn't be able to unbutton his shirt.