3. November, 1826

3

NOVEMBER, 1826

BERKLEY SQUARE, LONDON

G eorgina Throckmorton, ne' Wilsdam, smoothed her hands down her slim, lavender silk-covered hips and stared into the full-length mirror in her boudoir for the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes. The gilded Ormolu clock sitting atop her marble fireplace chimed the hour of one o'clock. One o'clock was the perfect time of the day. She'd just warmly bid good-bye to her tedious husband George, one of Prinny's closest financial advisers, not to mention one of his long-suffering bankers.

He wouldn't be back for at least six hours considering all the committee meetings he faced that afternoon at Westminster to be followed closely by supper at his club. After endless glasses of his favored brandy, John Coachman and one of their footmen would literally have to pour her inebriated husband into his bed sometime after midnight.

She carefully tied the ribbons closing the lace-trimmed robe that would cover her silken night rail, the better to allow the physician access to her body. She could almost feel his fingers fumbling with the slippery ribbons. She pinched color into her lips and considered her pale cheeks. Perhaps she'd pass on the pot of rouge. Wouldn't do to appear too healthy.

After she finally managed to seduce Dr. Douglas that afternoon, she'd have that luscious man give her an extra sleeping draught to get her through the night. However, she mused that perhaps an afternoon in her bed in the arms of a muscular, sensual Scotsman might be more than sufficient to wear her out to her very bones…enough to sleep through the night in any event.

She had a hunch that the months of having him visit her each week for her non-existent "nervous condition" had led to an, um, mutual tendre . She couldn't possibly be mistaken in the signals he'd been giving her. The warm sincerity of his voice, the gentle way he'd brushed against her perfectly formed breasts whilst listening to her heartbeat. Surely he'd noticed how his nearness precipitated wild pounding.

And then there was her obnoxious sister Caroline, Mrs. Edward Gloyne, who'd married a tin mine king from Cornwall. She lived in a townhouse on the opposite side of the square and rarely saw her husband and children who remained on a vast estate near Truro. She'd talked at length about their mutual physician, hinting at intimacies she'd shared with him.

The Wilsdam sisters, daughters of an earl, had debuted together ten seasons before, and both had been declared "diamonds." However, all the excitement of being darlings of the ton soon died when they were picked off early by frighteningly wealthy men who were in search of titled wives as brood mares and entree's to society.

She'd provided the requisite heir and spare, now nine and eight, who, thankfully, were still away at school until they descended back into the household for the term break. Her body had thoughtfully eschewed the production of daughters, so that Georgina could spend the rest of her life pursuing whatever sort of bliss she desired. Her husband was rarely sober enough to engage in sexual congress, so she no longer worried about that complication.

Her poor sister had produced two ghastly girls before managing an heir. Since she herself had been spared the pain of shepherding insipid young women into the world of the ton, she supposed she'd have to give her sister a hand with the unpleasant business when the time came.

There was a light tap at her door, and her lady's maid entered with a conspiratorial smile. "He's here."

"Send him up."

Dr. Hamish Douglas took a deep breath before climbing the curving staircase of the elegant townhouse behind Mrs. Throckmorton's lady's maid. The long oval mirrors lining the entry hall had multiplied his reflection, seeming to mock his aimless existence. He hated what he'd become: the latest entertainment for the bored wives of Prinny's inner circle.

His own father, one of Prinny's long-suffering physicians, had pushed him into the practice of treating wealthy patients in their homes. That was in theory. In practice, he'd been relegated to visiting a handful of women in the wealthiest part of Mayfair, none of whom were actually ill in any sense of the word. However, they all cheerfully insisted on weekly visits because they were all convinced that something was terribly wrong with them, and only he was skilled enough to get to the bottom of the medical conundrum of their bored existences.

Mrs. Throckmorton's long supposed illness had led to entirely too many familiarities on her part. She'd always offer him an elaborate tea when he arrived and would feign extreme pain and discomfort if he tried to demur and move on to his next appointment. He steeled himself for what he had to do. He had to end the longest illness he'd ever encountered in any human being. He planned to give her the name of Dr. Blake Smythe, who specialized in "nervous conditions" in women. He didn't want to know what the man did to satisfy the endless stream of patients he attracted, but he suspected Mrs. Throckmorton might thrive under his care.

The minute her lady's maid tapped at the lady's bedchamber door, she raced off as if she'd spied a rat in the hallway. Hamish grimaced. He suddenly realized the house had become deadly quiet. She'd apparently dismissed all the servants for the afternoon. He sighed and strode through the open door.

He knew the moment he saw her languid pose in her bed clothes, he was in trouble. He skipped his carefully rehearsed speech and instead shoved his colleague's card into her hand before rushing from the room. Hamish re-traced his steps all the way down the staircase and retrieved his hat, gloves, and cane from the entryway table before plunging out the front door. He didn't stop until he was three streets away.

When he returned to his office on Finsbury Square, Barrister Stephen Forsythe was waiting for him. He sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs in Hamish's waiting room, one booted foot tapping impatiently. "Good God, man. How long does it take to treat one demented wealthy woman for a non-existent disease?"

Hamish knew all about the famous barrister. Everyone did. However, he was still in a foul mood from his embarrassing denouement with Mrs. Throckmorton. "Who the hell are you and what do you want?"

Forsythe gave him an odd look before clapping him on the back and ushering him outside to an elegant carriage. Once they were inside, the barrister banged his walking cane against the roof and leaned back as if they'd known each other for years.

"Where the hell are we going?" Hamish was still peevish from his foul encounter that afternoon with his now former patient.

"Are you always this unpleasant?" Forsythe casually asked, as if he had no interest in the answer to the question. "You've been summoned."

"Summoned by whom? Why should I cooperate?"

"Lady Camilla Bowles Attington Carrington Whitby requires your presence, and if you want to live out a decent life in London, you would be well advised to comply."

Hamish went silent because he could not summon enough spit to form words. He knew Lady Camilla well. He also knew that running afoul of her could destroy his medical career in the British Isles…and no doubt beyond. He'd have to flee to Botany Bay if he ever wanted to practice medicine again.