The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)(25)

The other girl bent down to a notebook and flipped through it. “Mm,” she said. “That…should be sufficient.”

“Foolishness,” Stevens interrupted. “It’s all foolishness, as I’ve said—the instructions on disinfection, the solution, the handbills.” He cast a hard look at Miss Pursling. It was a look that said that he’d not taken Robert’s last warning to heart—that he still thought ill of her.

“Surely not all foolishness,” Miss Peters put in. “After all—”

Robert leaned forward.

Stevens slammed his hand on the table. “There’d be no need for disinfection if those infernal monkey workers would just vaccinate their children as required by law.”

The man in patched tweed shot to his feet. “Blast me if I let some vaccinator stick my children with pins made of some disease!”

“My mum, she was inoculated and died the next week!”

The plump woman leaned across the table. “Well, I had my Jess get the vaccine, and he still took sick of the smallpox and lost his sight. Turned out the vaccinator had run out when we came, so he just used spirits and charged the same anyway!”

Half the people at the table had come to their feet; they glowered uniformly at the captain. One wrong word, and the whole thing might explode into violence.

In that tense atmosphere, Miss Pursling slid back in her seat, her back utterly straight. Her hand rose to touch the scar on her face, fingering it as if it were a talisman against future harm.

“Stevens,” said a man with a low drawl, “surely I have as much interest in vaccinations as you do.”

That came from a dark-haired man sitting near the foot of the table—Doctor Grantham, a young man who had a practice on Belvoir Street. His words cut through the gathering tension, and Miss Pursling let out a little sigh, leaning against the back of her seat.

Grantham toyed idly with his fountain pen. “But in my practice, I’ve learned that I must treat the patients I have, not the ones I wish I had.”

Stevens glowered. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Grantham shrugged. “I wish I had patients who had meat and vegetables at every meal, clean water to wash with, and windows in every room. I wish I had patients who didn’t need to stoop to work.” His pen tapped against his knuckles as he spoke. “Hard on the spine and the internal organs, stooping.” He shrugged. “I wish I had patients who made twice as much in the factories, too. But alas, I take the patients I have.”

“You tell him, Doctor,” murmured the widow.

“Letting them make such decisions on their own leads to thoughts of self-governance,” Stevens hissed. “Talk of making their own rules. Next you know, we’ll have another episode of the Chartists to put down. Already people are talking about the vote. This town is a powder-keg of unrest, and you lot are waving a torch.” By his gesture, Stevens implicated not only Grantham, but Miss Pursling as well. “All this talk is giving them ideas.”

Grantham smiled and leaned forward. “In the course of my medical training, did you know that I learned that all people use brains? Even paupers and working men. They don’t need a wealthy person to give them ideas. They get them all on their own.”

“Gentlemen.” Miss Pursling rapped the table with her knuckles, the first loud sound she’d made. “The question of vaccination is one we must put off for later. The topic for the moment is disinfectant—and might I remind you both that disinfectant helps prevent cholera and influenza, two diseases we cannot inoculate against in any event.”

“Ah, Miss Pursling,” Grantham said softly. “Using facts to settle disputes. How bold of you.”

Miss Pursling didn’t blink in response, but Robert rather thought she was discomfited by even that much recognition.

“It’s settled then,” she said. “Marybeth Peters and I will post the handbills—”

“Two women, wandering the streets alone?” Stevens said. “I should think not.”

“If it comes to that,” Grantham put in, “I’ll come along. And Miss Pursling, perhaps you could bring your friend—Miss Charingford, is it not?”

That would be the woman who had so recently baptized Stevens with her drink. At that jab, Stevens’s face mottled almost as red as the punch that had been tossed in his face more than a week ago.

“The three of you posting leaflets about the Cooperative?” he sneered. “I won’t allow such a gathering of radicals in my town. Not under my nose. No, I’ll accompany them—and tell Miss Charingford to stay home where she belongs.”

“As you’re afraid of a solitary woman,” Grantham said silkily, “I doubt you’ll be able to provide the protection that the ladies require. I’ll do it.”

“To h—Hades with you,” Stevens snarled. “In fact, to Hades with this entire—”

“I’ll do it,” Robert said.

At the sound of his voice, they all turned to look at him. Miss Pursling’s eyes widened; Doctor Grantham looked at him quizzically. But Stevens turned utterly pale.

“Surely,” Robert said, “you don’t suspect me of radical tendencies, do you, Stevens?”

“Your Grace!” Stevens shot to his feet. “Of course not, Your Grace. But we wouldn’t dream of discommoding you. And…and, what are you doing here?”