Georgina Devon – Betrayal (страница 6)

Pippa chuckled, letting the relief she felt at his change of topic ease the tightness that had mounted in her shoulders during his talk of a strange woman. He was remembering the time she had sponged him. ‘You will eat lightly. I don’t want you throwing everything up no sooner than you get it down.’

He grimaced.

Pippa put her fists on her hips, feet shoulder width apart, and looked at him. Belatedly she realized what she was doing. The pose was natural with her when dealing with her brother, and invariably it put her twin’s back up. It would probably do the same to her patient.

With a sigh at her own mishandling of the situation, she quickly sat down on the only stool the room had and ladled up some of the gruel. She put the spoon to his lips. Instead of opening his mouth, his nose wrinkled in disgust and he scowled at her.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘You need food to get well, and you need food that is easy on your digestion. Later, when you are better and your stomach can handle mutton, I will allow you a complete meal.’ When his face softened, she added the clincher, ‘I don’t have the time or energy to care for you longer than necessary. I’m already late for my shift at the hospital.’

She watched his countenance as irritation warred with consideration. Consideration won. Pippa had been right about the way to handle him. It was the way she would have dealt with her twin.

Dev swallowed the gruel quickly, and Pippa was sure that if he had the energy and the bad manners, he would pinch his nose closed. Afterwards, she sponged off his face as professionally as she could when his nearness made her stomach knot. That finished, she tucked the covers around his chest to protect him from a draught.

Her face flamed at the familiarity of the gesture and the feel of his muscled shoulders under her fingers. It was a relief to turn away and prepare a draught.

‘Take this,’ she said, pivoting back and tipping the glass to his lips.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ he groused, wrapping the fingers of one hand around the glass Pippa still held.

Mind-startling awareness travelled from where they touched to explode in Pippa’s chest. She stepped abruptly away and chattered, ‘The drink is laudanum for sleep and pain and bark for the fever and inflammation. When I return, I will change your dressing, but ‘twill not be until late tonight. If you need anything, ring this bell and the landlady will come.’ She laid a brass bell with wooden handle by the bed.

‘Thank you,’ he said solemnly. ‘I won’t ever forget what I owe you.’

“Tis nothing,’ Pippa mumbled, grabbing up her coat and heading for the safety of the hospital.

The less time she spent in her handsome patient’s company now that he was awake, the better for her peace of mind. She was here in Brussels to find her twin, not get herself embroiled with a man who might be anyone. But even if he was the Prince Regent himself—which he wasn’t because he was much thinner than that corpulent royal—she would not be interested. She was going to dedicate her life to healing.

Best, when she returned, to find out if he had lodgings somewhere and arrange for him to be moved there. Surely there was someone who could look after him. That decision made, Pippa found herself alternately unsettled at the thought of him alone and relieved that he would no longer be a constant temptation to her.

Arriving at the crowded hospital, she set to work with a vengeance. There was always so much to do and not enough people or supplies to do it with.

Bent over the ripped arm of a sergeant, Pippa concentrated on removing the dressing with as little pain as possible. Gangrene had set in.

‘How is it?’ the man asked, agony etching furrows in his brow.

Pippa looked from the arm that would need to be amputated to the man’s face. It was all she could do to keep tears from slipping down her face. ‘You will need the surgeon to look at you,’ she said calmly, quietly, hoping the sergeant didn’t see the truth in her eyes. ‘For now, I am going to clean it and let it lay unwrapped. The air will do it good.’

What she didn’t tell the man was that it would not matter what she did, and the surgeon would be glad of the time saved by not having to remove a bandage. Too many soldiers needed operations. Sighing, Pippa stood and knuckled the kinks in her lower back.

‘You, young man,’ a French-accented female voice said imperiously. ‘Come here.’

Pippa was getting used to being called a boy and turned to see if the woman was speaking to her. A small, blonde Pocket Venus with the biggest, bluest eyes Pippa had ever seen, knelt less than ten feet away with a soldier’s head in her lap. The woman was dressed in the height of fashion in a sprigged muslin dress, all of which was covered by a voluminous apron. Definitely a lady, but the accent was wrong for a British hospital.

Pippa strode to her. ‘Madam?’

‘Lady Witherspoon.’ She motioned Pippa down. ‘This man needs a bath and I cannot give it. The water is right here and a piece of soap.’

Pippa nearly choked. This was one of the few duties she had managed to avoid. ‘Ah, milady…’

Before she could finish her explanation, the lady had gone on to the next patient. Pippa stared after her, feeling awkward and trapped. Luckily, she saw Sergeant Jones and waved him over.

‘I cannot lift the man properly,’ she gave him her regular excuse, one he’d heard frequently.

Jones gave her his great lopsided grin that showed a missing canine tooth. ‘Then you take that bloke over yonder. Has shrapnel all in his head. Them head wounds are the bloodiest nuisances. Turn my stomach with all their weeping they do.’

Pippa agreed willingly, but before going asked, ‘Who was that lady? Her accent is all wrong.’

Jones didn’t even bother to look where Pippa indicated. ‘Frenchie. Married to our Marquis of Witherspoon. Several of the men have spit on her, but she never says a harsh word. Almost as though she’s doin’ this to make up fer somethin’.’ He grunted as he rolled the patient on to his side. ‘She’s been helpin’ regular as clockwork. Not as good as you, mind, but then she’s a woman—and Quality.’

Pippa suppressed a grin at his lumping her with the ‘men’, while she digested the information. ‘Then why have I never seen her?’

Jones slanted her a knowing look. ‘Fine woman, but not fer the likes of me ‘n’ you, lad. Besides, she comes in the late afternoon. You’re with the Major making rounds.’

Accepting Jones’s assumption and explanation, Pippa went to her next patient. At least her disguise was perfectly safe. If the man she spent the most time with, and who did all the really personal care of the wounded, thought she was male, then everyone else did too.

Many hours later, Pippa walked the darkened streets of Brussels. Her back ached, her feet hurt, and she’d cried enough tears to float one of His Majesty’s ships. The man had lost his arm, screaming in pain in spite of all the rum she and Jones had forced between his clenched teeth. She hated it when these things happened.

Her reaction made her question her commitment to healing. She should be strong and not cry. She should be able to focus on doing what was necessary and go on. The local surgeon had said she felt too much of her patients’ pain, that she needed to distance herself emotionally—and that was before she came here and saw all this carnage.

She raked her fingers through the short length of her hair, her hand running on even after the strands ended. A month since she’d whacked off her waist-length hair, and she still tried to comb it as she had for many years. Another tear slipped.

Pippa stopped in the middle of the road and stomped her foot. She was acting like a watering pot. This would never do. She had things to do. Sick men to help and a brother to find.

Philip.

Somewhere her twin still lived. Instead of spending all her time worrying about the man lying in her bed or crying over things that had to be done, she should try again to see Wellington. Last week was the most recent time she’d sought an audience with the Iron Duke, and last week was the most recent time her request had been denied. Tomorrow she would try again.

Finding Philip was her sole reason for being here in Brussels, disguised as a boy and unchaperoned. Nothing else mattered.

Her grandfather thought she was here with Aunt Tabitha, but Aunt Tabitha was in London, blissfully unaware that Pippa was supposed to be under her chaperonage in Brussels. That was the way Pippa wanted it.

She had cut off her hair and taken the clothes Philip had worn as a youth. They were no longer in fashion, but a country man might still wear them. Disguised as a boy, she had booked passage on a packet crossing the channel and made her way here.

A young woman would never be told anything but what was proper, and she had a funny feeling that what had happened to her twin was less than respectable. Nor would a woman have been allowed the freedom to come and go as she had been while asking about her twin in the hopes that some clue to his whereabouts would emerge.

But if someone ever found out what she had done, her reputation would be gone. No one in Polite Society would ever receive her. No decent man would ever ask for her hand, no matter how wealthy she was. Not that she wanted to marry. She wanted to heal the sick and had turned down numerous offers from Aunt Tabitha to come to London for the Season. Still, she did not want to be beyond the pale.