The Death of Jane Lawrence(39)

Dr. Nizamiev barely marked her now, all her attention on the notebook she wrote in. It was the others who watched her, and Dr. Hunt who was waiting for her to speak.

“I’m glad to meet you all,” she managed after a moment. “I hope you will forgive me for the state of the house, however; we were not expecting you.”

“Well, if we had waited for a formal invitation from Augustine, it would never have come. We are quite familiar with his nature. We had, however, hoped to find him here, as his surgery was empty.”

“He’s with a case. A child,” Jane said, flushing as she realized she had forgotten all about the Maerbeck boy, concerned with her own distress. “Violent vomiting, throughout the night.”

“Hyperemesis,” one of the men said gravely, and it took her a moment’s awe before she realized he was not offering a diagnosis, but simply restating what she’d just said with more erudite words. He rose from his chair and joined her and Dr. Hunt, inclining his head. He was quite handsome, with jet hair and umber skin, and finely crafted features of the aristocratic sort. He was broad-shouldered, too, and the fingers that clasped hers were long and finely made.

“Mrs. Lawrence, it is a pleasure,” the man said with a controlled smile. “My name is Andrew Vingh. I’m head surgeon at a private hospital in Camhurst—your husband and I trained together in medical school. I must admit, I’m saddened to not find him at home. Are you certain he is with a patient?”

Jane went very still. “Excuse me?”

“I fear he’s avoiding us,” Dr. Vingh said.

They know he lies.

But no, he could not have been lying about his patient. He had no reason to, and no way to have brought Mr. Lowell in on the deception. And yet that patient had left her in this house, a house he had before claimed he did not want her anywhere near, and …

And she had company. She had to comport herself appropriately, not spiral out in paranoia. “I am sure he is with a patient,” Jane said. “He left here in great haste this morning. Hopefully he will return tonight.”

Vingh sighed. “He’s going to get himself killed, attending virulent cases. He’s too good with his blade to be wasting his life out here.” He paused, then inclined his head. “No offense, ma’am.”

“None taken,” she said, despite her bristling. “I’ve seen his skill firsthand.”

“Have you?” He sounded surprised.

“The second day I knew him, I assisted with an emergency surgery.” The scent of blood filled her nose as if she still wore her soiled gown. With it came the memory of their charged, quick touches, and the full-force bloom of her intoxication with him. A mess. It was all a mess, right from the first.

Vingh leaned in. “Really? What sort?”

“Ah—abdominal. A man came in with a malformation of the bowel.” She tripped over the words, though she remembered them issuing smoothly from Augustine’s lips.

“You’re trained, then? Where at? Almonth? Edonbridge?”

“No,” she said, smile tightening. “No, I was merely there. He needed another set of hands.”

Vingh regarded her curiously. Jane looked among the highly educated faces of surgeons and physicians crowding around her, and realized that she was not what they had expected to find.

“I see,” Vingh said, pulling her back. He offered her a patient smile. “Well, what I wouldn’t give to have seen that! Augustine is a wonder with a knife. Some concentrated practice, instead of this generalist nonsense, would quickly bring him to my level. Maybe higher.”

She could almost feel Renton’s blood under her nails again, and this man only cared about skill. “The patient died the next day.”

Vingh shrugged. “It happens,” he said, without embarrassment or empathy. “Abdominal surgery carries risks.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” But his nonchalance sat ill with her. A man like him—she could see his dismissal. By comparison, Augustine seemed almost too good. Too generous of spirit. He had never quizzed her on her education. Should that have been its own clue?

“You said that was the second day you met?” Vingh asked, gaze fixed on her as if she were a curiosity, vivisected. Her skin crawled. “With no nursing training at all?”

“No. I’m actually an accountant. I keep Dr. Lawrence’s books.”

That got a laugh out of him. “An accountant! He did find an interesting wife. Did he hire you first, or…?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Jane said, then inwardly relaxed as Hunt brought over two glasses of brandy, one of which she pressed into Jane’s hand. Jane took a quick but determined sip.

“Are you boring Mrs. Lawrence out of her mind, Andrew?”

Vingh shrugged. “I was just getting around to making my case for Mrs. Lawrence to draw her husband back to Camhurst. If you had been a nurse, Mrs. Lawrence, I would have described to you the wonders of the Royal. They’re always in need of skilled nurses. I wonder if they’d be in want of an accountant.”

A self-taught accountant, she did not add. After all, grammar schools hardly trained tradeswomen.

Instead, she tried to picture Camhurst, tried to picture Augustine in a grand operating theater, sought after, with the easy arrogance of his classmates. If only he had been that man instead, a man without time for spirits, a man whose secrets might have been more prosaic. Though perhaps that man would not have wanted her.