He didn’t trust women.
They were a fine pair.
“Mrs. Estep?” She didn’t respond. “Gemma.” He made his voice deliberately sharp. She blinked, looked to him—and what he saw in her eyes almost broke his heart.
He understood betrayal. He knew it well. Whatever was going through her mind, it was bigger than a knock on the head.
Ned spoke to Fitz. “Since you are here, make yourself useful. Pick up the candle and hold it high. Gemma, keep drinking.”
She dutifully took another sip from the flask while Fitz did as bidden. Ned could now see the cut more fully. No sign of imbedded splinters. “It is clean.”
He had pulled a second chair up so that he could sit facing her, the two of them knee to knee, and reached inside his bag.
Gemma stirred. Her knee hit his, then rested. “I would put charcoal on it.”
“Not from the hearth,” Ned countered, pulling out a small bag.
“Certainly from the hearth.” Her spirit was returning. “Where else would you find it?”
He poured the contents of his bag in the palm of his hand. There were three small charcoal pieces. “I’m a bit choosy about what I use. I prepare this myself from good oak wood.”
For the first time since the incident began, she looked at him, truly looked at him. He took a small mortar and pestle from his bag. It was a third of the size of a normal one. He ground a chunk of the charcoal, adding a spot of water to create a paste.
She watched, a small smile forming. When he was finished, she said, “Why, Mr. Thurlowe, I’m surprised you would use a healer’s remedy.”
“I use whatever has been proven to be good medicine.”
“So that means you keep leeches in that bag?”
“Not in my bag.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. Yes, she was feeling better, and he did have leeches at his house. Every doctor kept them. “I rarely use them. I prefer to see if the body heals itself first. Sometimes the best cure is patience.”
“That is a comfort.” She turned her head for him to apply the charcoal. Fitz, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing, held the light. He was good about not letting any wax drop on both doctor and patient.
After Ned gingerly applied the paste to her wound, he unrolled a clean bandage from his bag. He wrapped it around her head. She touched it as if judging his skill and then smiled. “It helps.”
“Fitz, fetch a mug.” Ned took the flask and poured a bit of brandy in it. He handed it to the lanky man. “Here, you look as if you could use a bit of a restorative.”
“Thank you, sir. I could. I didn’t like seeing what I did.”
“She is lucky you didn’t do worse.”
“Yes, sir.” Fitz downed the brandy.
And was that his imagination, or did her mouth twitch as if she held back a smile?
He placed the flask in her hands. “Drink.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she replied, as if being dutiful. She took a sip, tasted it, and then took another. “It is restorative.” The fear had left her eye.
Fitz hovered. “Will you accept my apology, Mrs. Estep—?”
“Gemma,” she corrected him perfunctorily. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes as if letting the brandy flow through her being.
“Gemma,” Fitz repeated.
He really did sound pathetic and Ned could see Gemma softening toward him. For that reason, he said, “I am certain you are sorry, Fitz. However, this will be a matter for the magistrate when he returns. You can’t go around bashing heads.”
Poor Fitz appeared ready to dissolve. “I regret what I did. I wasn’t thinking. My mother will be disappointed.”
“Still, you did it.”
Gemma had opened her eyes, watching Ned carefully during this exchange. Not Fitz. She watched him.
“I’ve never been in trouble before,” Fitz said. He appeared ready to bolt.
Ned shrugged. He had no words.
Gemma did. “Why did you attack me? I understand you were trying to steal, but you hit me?”
“I didn’t mean to attack you. When you came out of your room, you startled me. I thought you were with the other women gathered at Smythson this evening.” Smythson was the ancestral home of the Duke of Winderton and where his mother resided.
“Ah, so that is why Mrs. Warbler hasn’t come running over,” Ned murmured. The color was definitely returning to her cheeks. He was now certain she would be all right. One always had to worry about concussion.
“I was supposed to go with them except I was tired. Thank heavens I was here, although you would not have found the letter from my uncle.”
That caught Ned’s interest. A letter? That was what she had?
And then he pushed those thoughts aside. There had been enough of this nonsense for the night. Almost wearily, he said, “The Earl of Marsden will deal fairly with you, Fitz. Of course, what you should truly fear is the wrath of your mother and the other matrons once they learn what you have done.”
Fitz pulled at his hair. “Oh, God, sir, Mother can’t know. She will not be pleased.” He looked again to Gemma. “I will do anything to make this right to you. I’m not afraid of paying my dues.”
“Just not in front of the magistrate or your mother, eh?” Ned observed.
Fitz ignored him, appealing directly to Gemma. “Please.”
“Your friends might believe I deserved a whack on the head,” she said quietly.
“No, ma’am, they would not think it honorable. And it wasn’t,” Fitz answered.
Gemma considered him a moment. She took another sip of brandy and then said, “I could use help here. Show up on the morrow and we shall see if we can work something out. I would not wish to trouble the magistrate over the matter.”
Fitz’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you. Thank you—” Ned thought he sounded pathetic in his gratitude. “I will be here. In the morning?”
“Oh, yes, half past seven. I’m an early riser.”
Fitz nodded. “Thank you, Mrs.—Gemma. Thank you.”
“The lads will believe you a turncoat,” Ned pointed out. He wanted Fitz to realize exactly what he was committing to.
“They can think what they like. I’m sorry I did it.” With that, he took off as if escaping before she could change her mind.
They were alone.
He suddenly became very aware of that.
And although she wasn’t the first female patient he’d been alone with in her nightdress, she was the first where he’d registered how thin the material of a gown was. Or wondered how naked the body was beneath it.
He should leave.
He’d done all he could.
Instead, he lingered, sitting right where he was. Close to her, her knee still familiarly against his.
Ned knew his face attracted women. He’d had plenty throw themselves at him, something he found embarrassing and that had blessedly been curbed by his betrothal to Clarissa. Except, right now he wondered if his face appealed to her? And would she throw herself at him? Would she become giddy and a bit reckless like some women did? Then he thought of the wariness in her eyes, her lack of trust.
They were cut out of the same cloth, he realized with a start. Neither of them trusted easily. He’d heard her husband had been a complete villain. The women he’d known in his life—his mother, his father’s wife, the half sisters who would have nothing to do with him—they’d hardened him. He’d learned that if he let people, especially women, too close, they would betray him. They would ferret out his vulnerabilities and use them against him.