He extended it to her. “Bring this to Winterborne’s on Monday morning at nine o’clock sharp. Ask for Mrs. Fernsby.”
“May I ask for what purpose?” The doctor’s eyes had widened.
“I keep a staff physician on retainer to look after the health of a thousand employees. He’s an old codger, but a good man. He’ll have to agree to hiring you, but I don’t expect he’ll object. Among other things, he needs someone to help with midwifery—it takes hours at a time, and he said the process is hard on his rheumatism. If you’re willing—”
“Yes. I would be. Thank you. Yes.” Dr. Gibson held the card with whitening fingertips. “I’ll be there Monday morning.” A wondering grin crossed her face. “Although it hasn’t turned out to be a fortunate day for you, Mr. Winterborne, it seems to have turned out well for me.”
Chapter 9
“MR. WINTERBORNE,” FERNSBY EXCLAIMED IN horror as she entered the office and saw that Rhys was filthy, battered, and bare-chested save for his coat. “Dear heaven, what happened? Were you set upon by thugs? Thieves?”
“By a building, actually.”
“What—”
“I’ll explain later, Fernsby. At the moment, I need a shirt.” Uncomfortably he fished the prescription from his coat pocket and gave it to her. “Give this to the apothecary and have him mix a tonic—my shoulder was dislocated, and it aches like the devil. Also, tell my solicitor to be in my office within the half hour.”
“Shirt, medicine, solicitor,” she said, committing them to memory. “Are you going to sue the owners of the building?”
Wincing in discomfort, Rhys lowered into the chair at his desk. “No,” he murmured. “But I need to revise my will immediately.”
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to go to your house to wash first?” she asked. “You’re rather . . . begrimed.”
“No, this can’t wait. Tell Quincy to bring hot water and a towel. I’ll scrub off what I can here. And bring some tea—no, coffee.”
“Shall I send for Dr. Havelock, sir?”
“No, I’ve already been treated by Dr. Gibson. She’s coming for an interview on Monday at nine, by the way. I’m going to hire her to assist Havelock.”
Mrs. Fernsby’s brows arched high over the rims of her spectacles. “She? Her?”
“Haven’t you heard of female doctors?” Rhys asked dryly.
“I suppose so, but I’ve never seen one.”
“You will Monday.”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Fernsby muttered, and rushed from the office.
With effort, Rhys reached for the jar of peppermint creams, took one and popped it into his mouth, and resettled his coat around his shoulders.
As the peppermint disintegrated on his tongue, he forced himself to confront the thought that had horrified him during the ride back to Winterborne’s.
What would have become of Helen if he had died?
He had always lived fearlessly, taking calculated risks, doing whatever he pleased. Long ago he had accepted that his business would someday go on without him: He had planned to leave the company to his board of directors, the group of trusted advisors and friends whom he’d collected over the years. His mother would be handsomely taken care of, but she neither wanted nor merited any controlling interest in the company. There were also generous bequests to certain employees, such as Mrs. Fernsby, and sums to be distributed to distant relatives.
But so far Helen hadn’t been mentioned in his will. As things stood, if the building accident had been fatal, she would have been left with nothing—after he had taken her virginity and possibly left her with his child.
It terrified him to realize how vulnerable Helen’s position was. Because of him.
His head throbbed viciously. Bracing his good arm on the desk, he lowered his forehead to the crook of his elbow, and trammeled his frantic thoughts into coherence.
He would have to move quickly to safeguard Helen’s future. The question of how to protect her in the long term, however, was a more complicated question.
As usual, his staff was fast and efficient. Quincy, the elderly valet he had hired away from Devon Ravenel only a few months ago, brought a fresh shirt, waistcoat, a can of hot water, and a tray of grooming supplies. Upon witnessing Rhys’s condition, the concerned valet clucked and murmured in dismay as he washed, brushed, combed, dabbed, and smoothed until Rhys was presentable. The worst part was donning the fresh shirt and waistcoat; as Dr. Gibson had predicted, the injured shoulder was becoming more painful.
After Mrs. Fernsby had brought a dose of tonic from the apothecary, and a tray with both coffee and brandy, Rhys was ready for the solicitor.
“Winterborne,” Charles Burgess said as he entered the office, glancing over him with a mixture of amusement and concern. “You remind me of a rough and tumble lad I once knew on High Street.”
Rhys smiled at the stocky, gray-haired solicitor, who had once worked for his father on small legal matters. Eventually he had become one of Rhys’s advisors as the grocer’s shop expanded into a vast mercantile business. Now Burgess was on the private company’s board of directors. Meticulous, insightful, and creative, he was able to pick his way through legal obstacles like a North Wales sheep through upland heath.
“Mrs. Fernsby says that you were caught in a construction mishap,” Burgess commented, sitting on the other side of the desk. He extracted a notebook and pencil from the inside of his coat.
“Aye. Which brought to my attention the need to revise my will without delay.” He proceeded to explain about his engagement to Helen, giving Burgess a carefully expurgated version of recent events.
After listening closely and writing a few notes, Burgess said, “You wish to secure Lady Helen’s future contingent upon a legal and consummated marriage, I assume.”
“No, starting now. If something should happen to me before the wedding, I want her to be taken care of.”
“You have no obligation to make any provision for Lady Helen until she becomes your wife.”
“I want to put five million pounds in trust for her without delay.” At the solicitor’s stunned expression, Rhys said bluntly, “There may be a child.”
“I see.” Burgess’s pencil moved rapidly across the page. “If a child is born within nine months after your demise, would you wish to make a provision for him?”
“Aye. He—or she—will inherit the company. If there is no child, everything goes to Lady Helen.”
The pencil stopped moving. “It’s not my place to say anything,” Burgess said. “But you’ve only known this woman for a matter of months.”
“It’s what I want,” Rhys said flatly.
Helen had risked everything for him. She had given herself to him without conditions. He would do no less for her.
He certainly didn’t plan on meeting his maker any time soon—he was a healthy man with the greater part of his life still ahead of him. However, the accident today—not to mention the train collision a month ago—had demonstrated that no one was exempt from the vagaries of fate. If something did happen to him, he wanted Helen to have everything that was his. Everything, including Winterborne’s.