Charlotte was increasingly in John’s thoughts the next several days. Perhaps she was tired from four years of rigorous schooling and living far away from home, or that her return brought with it a flood of unexpected questions. In his mind, however, her father’s letter left little room for doubt about what David Duvall believed had happened to his young wife. He didn’t know if Charlotte was prepared to accept it, though. Perhaps when John had a moment to review the police file, he would have answers for her.
Charlotte Duvall was the most levelheaded woman John had ever known. His first interactions with her, when Amelie had found herself the target of a madman, had impressed him to no end. She was practical, direct, and what he would describe as “tough,” despite being a woman of gentle rearing.
He thought about her as he tied his cravat in his dressing room. He occupied the townhome he’d inherited from his mother’s side. His elder brother, Edgar, was their father’s heir and lived with his family near their parents. John had never coveted his brother’s position, and in fact, much preferred his own. That he’d chosen a career in law enforcement over the military was a sticking point with his parents, but his strong will had always matched theirs, so that was that. It didn’t stop them from insisting he make a suitable social match, however, and they’d had more conversations about the matter than he could count.
Tonight, he was obliged to attend a political gathering disguised as a ball and anticipating it had caused a headache to form behind his eyes that was spreading up into his forehead. He’d known when becoming the CID director that a certain amount of political pandering was part of the job. As much as it irritated him, he often found it useful; though, if given the choice, he preferred direct conversation in a club or office. Combining work with social settings where his mother would manipulate him into dancing with women he’d already met—and who agreed with him that their match was unsuitable—was tiresome.
Sally Hampton might be in attendance, as she frequently was, and he found her conversation refreshing. Perhaps because she reminded him of Charlotte. His mother had little good to say about “those Hamptons,” but he was usually able to ignore her criticisms. His head was hurting tonight, however, and if he didn’t soon swallow a pot of black tea, he feared the pain would bloom into something incapacitating. Then his hopes for keeping his mother’s snide comments from bothering him would be put to the test, and he feared he’d lose.
He straightened his neckwear, satisfied with his appearance. His valet appeared at his side with a cup of the requested tea, and John took it with a nod. Piping hot, no sugar, barely a splash of milk. Casting up an unuttered prayer of hope it would do the trick, he drank it quickly before heading down the stairs, his valet at his heels.
“Mason, I shouldn’t be much past one o’clock,” he said as Mason helped him into his overcoat and brushed off his shoulders. “Even so, do not wait up. I can manage.”
“You’re certain, sir?” Mason had been with John for a decade, so he knew him well. He would see the strain around his eyes and the headache settling there. “I shall leave laudanum at your night table.”
“Yes, thank you.” He hoped he wouldn’t need the medicine—it made him tired, and he had work piled high on his desk for the morning. As he stepped out into the crisp autumn evening and waited for his carriage to be brought around, he smelled the city air and wished to be back in the country.
His carriage stopped in front of him, and John gave the driver the address before climbing in. It was another difference from life in the country; there, he’d have ridden his horse to a social gathering, enjoying the freedom of his own control. The carriage lamp burned low, and he turned it up slightly despite the pain in his head, then reached for one of the evening edition newspapers that lay crisply folded for him on the seat.
Sensationalism, much of it, but he made a point of glancing over as many publications as he could throughout the course of a day. Knowledge was power, and knowledge of London and its denizens was crucial to his success. At the bottom of the stack lay The Marriage Gazette. He smiled. Sally Hampton had purchased the failing publication a few years earlier and employed her three nieces there. She also provided them room and board at the cozy, respectable Hampton House in Bloomsbury. It had been her desire to see the young women begin their adult lives as Women of Independent Means, as Amelie liked to say, and Sally’s successes in that endeavor were impressive.
Amelie was the best assistant John had ever had, and he used her organizational skills as often as he could secure her time. Eva had built a reputation as an excellent photographer whose skills were in high demand despite the advent of personal cameras that had begun to circulate from New York. And Charlotte . . . John smiled. A doctor. She’d done it, though he’d never doubted she would.
He set the papers aside and turned down the light. Leaning back against the comfortable seat, he closed his eyes. He hoped Sally would be in attendance tonight. He wanted an update on Charlotte’s plans.
The carriage came to an abrupt stop, and John winced at the sudden lurch. He looked out the window to see a large crowd entering the Fulbright home. Carriages lined the street, and John sighed as he exited his, telling the driver he’d walk the rest of the way. He put on his hat, wishing for a moment he could keep it on as the tension of the brim eased some of the pain.
He smoothed his features as he reached the front doors, nodding at people he knew and managing a smile as he tipped his hat to the Misses Van Horne, octogenarian twin sisters who were sought-after party attendees following the murder that had occurred in their home nearly five years back. Every hostess in London hoped that their eccentric appearance might spark something memorable that would make the gathering the talk of the town.
“Handsome as ever,” Margaret said to Ethel, elbowing her as she looked John up and down. “Age sits well on you, Director.”
“As it does with you, Miss Van Horne.” He took her elbow as they stepped inside the brightly lit foyer of the enormous home. “I do hope both of you will allow me to ply you with refreshments later this evening.”
Ethel muttered something to her sister that John couldn’t discern but was certain was a bit ribald. His lips tightened as he fought a smile, wishing the ladies were decades younger and yet somehow relieved they weren’t.
“I bid you a momentary farewell,” he told them as he handed his hat and coat to an attendant, “and pray you’ll save me a dance.” The ladies never danced, and he knew it. He also knew that they knew he knew it. It was an amusing game they played at each event, which delighted them to no end.
“Of course, we shall,” Ethel answered, adjusting the grip on her cane. “Pray you do not take too long in searching us out. We shall likely be near the refreshments table, or perhaps with Lady Swinton. She usually faints during the second hour, you see, and we make wagers.”
His mouth twitched, and he gave them a small bow.
“Too much more of that and you’ll cause a scandal,” a voice said at his elbow.
He turned to see Charlotte, and his heart tripped in surprise. “You’re in Town?” He stated the obvious as he took her hands and kissed one.
“I am, indeed. Moving back into Hampton House while I contemplate my career.” She rolled her eyes and lowered her voice. “If I’m able to create one at all. Mr. Auburn of the Medical Society has already given me the cut direct, and we’ve not even made it into the ballroom.”
Satisfaction rose as he considered the implications. “You’re staying in London?”
She nodded. “At least until I unravel this business about my parents. I do not know how long it will take, and if I am not working, I’ll go mad. I’ve written to Matron Halcomb at Delaney Hospital and arranged an interview.”
John put his hand on her back and led her toward the wide-open doors of the ballroom where music played, a cacophony of voices sounded, and the gasoliers shone brighter than the sun. He winced at the noise. “You’ll find yourself employed in no time—with Dr. Auburn’s approval or without it.”
She looked up at him and paused, long enough that he looked down at her in question.
“You have a headache,” she said.
He nodded, but even that hurt.
“John,” she murmured. “You should be at home.”
“I must speak with a certain member of Parliament. Quincy’s proposal for restructuring the police fund has the potential to impact my department severely.”
“Surely you can schedule an appointment with him later.”
They were bumped from behind, and he guided her farther into the room. “Charlotte, you know as well as I do that it’s much better to raise such a matter initially in a neutral setting, preferably one where he is either already into his cups, losing badly at cards, or desperate enough to escape his wife that he welcomes the distraction.”
“That is true, but I don’t imagine the impression you’ll leave if you vomit on his shoes will be favorable.”
“Perhaps not, but as you’ve said, it will be memorable.” He smiled at her quiet chuckle.
“Do you see him here?”
John was tall and had a good view through the crowd despite a profusion of feathers and ribbons adorning a multitude of feminine hats. “Not yet, but we’ve only just arrived.”
“Suppose we circle around to the balcony? We can avoid the worst of the din, and the cooler air will do you good.”
“Is that your order as a physician?” He smiled at her, but to his consternation, silver flashes appeared in his vision and partially obscured her face. She must have seen it in his expression; she’d been present once before at the onset of a megrim.
She paused, stood on her toes to see through the crowded room, and with a huff of frustration, took his arm firmly. “Come with me.”
Nausea was settling in, and he followed her willingly as she carefully guided him back through the doors and down a hallway to the left. They walked for some time before she tried a door that opened into a cooler room. A library, with a few lamps burning low in the far corners.
“Cause a scandal for certain,” he murmured as she guided him to a deep leather sofa.
“Haven’t you heard? I am a Notorious Hampton; people expect nothing less.” Her voice was soft, and he heard her stripping off her gloves. “Lean back,” she said, placing cool fingertips against his forehead and exerting light pressure.
He did as she ordered, closing his eyes in relief at the coolness of the room. He heard her cross the floor, followed by a collection of sounds: water poured from a pitcher, a rustle of fabric, the sound of water droplets hitting a tray. She returned to his side and sat gingerly next to him.
“I’m going to place a cool cloth on your forehead,” she said, her voice low, soothing.
“You’re very good at this,” he said, wondering if his words were making sense. The pain was excruciating.
“I ought to be.” She placed a cool stretch of fabric on his forehead, and he nearly groaned in relief. “I’m going to mix a powder for you to drink. It doesn’t have the heavy effects of laudanum and won’t completely cure the pain, but it should remove some of the edge.”
“You travel with an apothecary?”
“I have suffered more headaches than I imagined possible over the last four years. I never go anywhere without it.” Her voice was wry, and he heard the sounds of fabric whispering, paper crinkling, and a spoon clinking efficiently in a glass. “Here, drink it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The thought of refusing her never crossed his mind. “Is it true that in the United States, the term ‘doctor’ applies to both physicians and surgeons?”
“That is true.”
“So, the title is considered one of distinction, regardless of specialty.”
“Correct.”
“Here, a surgeon worth his salt would never be addressed as anything but ‘Mr.’”
“That is also correct.” He heard the smile in her voice.
“Which do you prefer, then? You’ve trained as a surgeon.”
“Hmm.” She paused. “I worked quite strenuously for the distinction of ‘doctor.’ No matter the difference in status here, hearing that honorific does make me smile.”
“Then, Dr. Duvall, I must confess something.”
“Yes?” He heard the smile in her voice again.
“I’ve missed you dreadfully, friend.”