Rhys grinned. “But you do want someone to buy it. And you won’t find many prospective buyers with all the cheap undeveloped land available in the boroughs.”
“If you think—”
The rest of Severin’s words were drowned out by an ominous cracking sound, a deafening rumble, and shouts of alarm. Both men turned to look as the upper portion of one of the condemned buildings began to collapse. Rotting beams and timbers had given way to gravity, slate tiles sliding downward and tumbling over the eaves.
The abandoned boy, perched on his pile of belongings, was directly below the deadly cascade.
Without thinking, Rhys raced toward the child, forgetting the stiffness of his leg in his haste to reach him. He threw himself over the boy, making a shelter of his body, just before he felt a tremendous blow on his shoulder and back. His entire skeleton quivered. Through the burst of white sparks in his head, some distant part of his brain calculated that he’d been struck heavily—there would be considerable damage—and then everything went dark.
Chapter 8
“WINTERBORNE. WINTERBORNE. COME NOW, open your—yes, there’s a good fellow. Look at me.”
Rhys blinked, awakening slowly to the bewildered awareness that he was on the ground, in the perishing cold. There was a crowd around him, exclaiming, questioning, shouting advice, and Severin was leaning over him.
Pain. He was submerged in it. Not the worst pain he’d ever experienced, but considerable nonetheless. It was difficult to move. He could tell that something was drastically wrong with his left arm, which had gone numb and motionless.
“The boy—” he said, recalling the roof collapse, the tumble of wood and slate.
“Unharmed. He was trying to pick your pocket before I shooed him away.” Giving him a mocking glance, Severin continued, “if you’re going to risk your life for someone, do it for a useful member of society, not a street urchin.” He extended a hand, intending to help Rhys up.
“My arm won’t move.”
“Which one? The left? You’ve probably broken it. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but when a building is falling down, you run away from it, not toward it.”
A commanding female voice pierced the cacophony of voices and steam engines. “Let me through! Move to the side, please. Out of my way.”
A woman dressed in black with a jaunty green necktie at her throat, pushed her way through the crowd with brisk determination, deftly employing a curved-handle walking stick to prod slow-moving bystanders. She looked at Rhys with an assessing gaze and knelt beside him, heedless of the muddy ground.
“Miss,” Severin began with a touch of annoyance, “no doubt you’re trying to be of use, but—”
“I’m a physician,” she said curtly.
“You mean a nurse?” Severin asked.
Ignoring him, she asked Rhys, “Where is the worst pain?”
“Shoulder.”
“Move your fingers, please.” She watched as he complied. “Does the arm feel numb? Tingly?”
“Numb.” Clenching his teeth, Rhys looked up at her. A young woman, still in her twenties. Pretty, with brown hair and large green eyes. Despite her slim form and fine features, she conveyed an impression of sturdiness. Very gently, she took hold of his arm and elbow and tested the range of motion. Rhys grunted as a spear of agony went through his shoulder. Carefully the woman settled the arm back against his midriff. “Pardon,” she murmured, reaching beneath his coat to feel his shoulder. An explosion of icy heat sent sparks across his vision.
“Agghh!”
“I don’t believe it’s fractured.” She withdrew her hand from his coat.
“That’s enough,” Severin said in exasperation. “You’re going to make his injuries worse. He needs a doctor, not some—”
“I have a medical degree. And your friend has a dislocated shoulder.” She untied the green bow at her throat and pulled the scarf free. “Give me your necktie. We have to secure his arm before we move him.”
“Move him where?” Severin asked.
“My practice is two streets away. Your necktie, please.”
“But—”
“Give it to her,” Rhys snapped, his collapsed shoulder on fire.
Grumbling, Severin complied.
Deftly the woman improvised a sling with the green scarf, knotted it at the level of Rhys’s collarbone, and adjusted the edge around his elbow. With Severin’s help, she slid the necktie around Rhys’s midriff and over the numb arm, securing it close to his body.
“We’ll help you to your feet,” she told Rhys. “You won’t have to walk far. I have the proper facilities and supplies to treat your shoulder.”
Severin scowled. “Miss, I have to object—”
“Dr. Gibson,” she said crisply.
“Dr. Gibson,” he said, with an emphasis on the “Dr.” that sounded distinctly insulting. “This is Mr. Winterborne. The one with the department store. He needs to be treated by a real physician with experience and proper training, not to mention—”
“A penis?” she suggested acidly. “I’m afraid I don’t have one of those. Nor is it a requirement for a medical degree. I am a real physician, and the sooner I treat Mr. Winterborne’s shoulder, the better it will go for him.” At Severin’s continued hesitation, she said, “The limited external rotation of the shoulder, impaired elevation of the arm, and the prominence of the coracoid process all indicate posterior dislocation. Therefore, the joint must be relocated without delay if we are to prevent further damage to the neurovascular status of the upper extremity.”
Had Rhys not been in such acute discomfort, he would have relished Severin’s stunned expression.
“I’ll help you move him,” Severin muttered.
During the short but torturous walk, Severin persisted in questioning the woman, who answered with admirable patience. Her name was Garrett Gibson, and she had been born in East London. After enrolling at a local hospital as a nursing student, she had begun to take classes intended for doctors. Three years ago, she had earned a medical degree at the University of Sorbonne in Paris, and subsequently returned to London. As was common, she had established her practice out of a private home, which in this case happened to be her widowed father’s residence.
They reached the three-story house, tucked in a row of comfortably middle-class Georgian-style terraces built with crimson cutting bricks. Such buildings were invariably designed with one room in the front and one in the back on each story, with a passageway and a staircase on one side.
A maid opened the door and welcomed them inside. Dr. Gibson ushered them into the back room, a scrupulously clean surgery that had been furnished with an examination table, a bench, a desk, and a wall of mahogany cabinets. She directed Rhys to sit on the examination table, constructed with a padded leather top over a cabinet base. The top was divided into hinged sections that could be adjusted to raise the head, upper torso, or feet.
After quickly shrugging out of her coat and pulling off her hat, Dr. Gibson handed them to the maid. She approached Rhys and gently removed the makeshift sling. “Before you lie down, Mr. Winterborne,” she said, “we’ll need to remove your coat.”