Chapter One

London, 1820.

O n to another Monday morning at 87 Harley Street, Nick thought as he picked up the patient cards from the kitchen table and set his teacup in the sink. The waiting room had already filled with Monday morning emergencies and the doctors rose from their breakfasts eager to prepare for another week of hard work.

"Dislocated shoulder, possibly broken elbow." Nick held the card out with the patient's name, age, and chief complaint—another pro bono case they'd take on without pay.

"Got it," Andre took the card and scanned it. There wasn't a joint the orthopedist couldn't soothe or a bone he couldn't set. If there was one principle the doctors all agreed on, it was that helping patients didn't require a quid pro quo because it wasn't about the money. Helping people was what medicine was all about for them—and yet the supplies and medicines were expensive, and they needed some patients who could afford their fees.

Nicholas Folsham, or just "Nick," had golden hands and a perfect track record of surgeries. That's what most people believed. Probably. He picked his cases and only performed surgeries when he knew he'd succeed.

"Do you have the Earl of Langley's cataract today?" Alfie asked about their most prominent case and for whom he'd mixed various tinctures, emulsions, and teas. He was as talented an apothecary as he was a rake.

"Yes, later this morning." Nick didn't look up from the patient cards. If Nick could fix the cataract on the earl's left eye and restore his vision, he could ensure his continued recommendations among his aristocratic clients and, thus, a steady influx of patients for the practice. It was their privilege to treat patients and heal them, but it was also their livelihood.

Next card. "Grace nine, Dorothy eleven, and Kenneth fourteen—"

"Ah, Lord Carvill's children. I'll take these," Felix said, with his signature sad eyes, despite a smile. He wasn't merely the resident dentist at 87 Harley Street but one of Nick's most trusted friends. "Just a few fillings. Everything's ready upstairs."

Felix headed out to the waiting room to welcome his three young patients. Children didn't even mind him. There was no higher praise for a dentist.

"A rash, some warts, and… oh, please read this yourself, I just ate," Nick said, handing Alfie, the apothecary, the cards for his morning clients. He pushed the bowl of green grapes to the center of the oak table. Even though he'd studied the general ailments of the human body, physiology and pathology were two completely kettle of fish, the latter of which he'd rather leave for Alfie if it was a matter outside the eye.

"Not again!" Alfie groaned. "There's no way he's already used up all the tincture."

"Please mind her," Nick said with a severe glance in Wendy's direction, his nineteen-year-old sister who he'd trained as a nurse. She was the only female who lived with him and his friends, some of the most highly specialized doctors in England. Nick joined his sister and Alfie as they left the kitchen, and walked toward the front of the building. His treatment room was on the left of the waiting room, and Alfie's apothecary was on the right.

"Who do you think told His Grace that Alfie has a cure for the inability to complete the marriage act to ensure his wife's pleasure?" Wendy asked with a proud smile that melted away when she saw Nick's eyes growing wide in shock.

"It's more like a cure for the inability to even start." Alfie winked and raised his brows giving Wendy one of his rakish you-know-I-know-how-pretty-you-are looks before Nick could punch him—lightly, as between friends. But still.

"She's my little sister!" Nick shook his head. Alfie was far too handsome for an apothecary, but it was probably good for business. After the ladies saw him, they sent their husbands for tinctures. What Alfie charged on the first Monday of the month nearly paid for their rent.

"Not-so-little sister!" Alfie winked again and gave Wendy a look over his shoulder as he disappeared into his pharmacy across from Nick's treatment room. He'd say she blushed if it weren't the light on this particularly dreadful London morning. No, he assured himself, it was impossible that she blushed. It must be the fog, softening the gas light .

"You know he's jesting, right?" she said with that smitten smile still pasted on, the kind Nick knew would be trouble someday.

"He'd never lay a hand on you, I know that. But I wish he wouldn't flirt with you."

"He flirts with everyone. Alfie's so handsome, he can get away with it." It bothered Nick that his sister wasn't immune to Alfie's charms. She should be since he'd known the apothecary and all the others for almost a decade. Well, nine years? No. He counted again. Just eight. When he started to study medicine with them, Miss Gewndolyn Folsham had been but ten years old and she'd still not lived down the nickname she gave herself at age two: "Wendy." She was a darling sister and they had endured a lot together a long time ago.

"What about me?" Nick asked, bending down to pick up Chromius's water bowl and rinse it off in the sink. "Come on, old boy, time to wake up. The room needs to be prepared for surgery."

"You're handsome, but you don't know it." Wendy had begun to care about him during the time between growing up too fast and speaking to uncountable patients about far too much that affected matters of the heart. She was his confidante, and even though he wouldn't admit it to her, he often felt as though she could see the world more clearly than he did. Nick trusted her judgment, however, unwillingly.

"I beg your pardon?" Nick wiped the bowl with an old towel and filled it with fresh water for the dog.

"You don't notice when women notice you, so you can't flirt," Wendy added.

That was astute.

Irritatingly so, in fact. Especially coming from his little sister.

But that was neither here nor there. As usual, there was no time to think about women for Nick. "We have three surgeries today."

Wendy nodded and opened the cabinet to retrieve some clean linens. She was the best nurse and the smartest little sister in the world. Or the other way around. It didn't matter. He loved her dearly. The thing was, she was right about him not knowing how to flirt. And that inability to flirt bothered him immensely.

He needed a distraction to channel his focus for the surgery later this morning. Thus, Nick decided it was time to get something sweet from the corner patisserie . He tied Chromius's lead on and listened to the sleepy dog following with the pitter-patter of his little feet on short legs. When he closed the door to the practice, he admired the new sign on their door.

The new door sign, a polished brass one, had all their names etched on it. They'd finally arrived at their own office, triggering a celebration with a bottle of sparkling wine the evening before—right after Felix screwed their new door sign in place. It sparkled as brightly in the morning sun as the sight did in Nick's heart.

87 Harley Street

Nicholas Folsham

Alfie Collins

Felix Leafley

Wendy Folsham

Andre Fernando

Even though it was small and understated, like all the signs on Harley Street, this little brass sign bore his name and filled Nick with pride. Besides the sign, Nick adored this neighborhood. It was peaceful and quiet in the early morning hours.

But he was adamantly ignoring the undercurrent of anxiety, a constant vigilance that kept his heart racing and his palms sweating because he knew that anything one received, no matter how hard earned, could be lost. As quickly as the sign had been installed, it could be removed.

The medical offices on Harley Street were in constant flux. It was a known fact that patients would seek the best care and cutting-edge treatments from experts with degrees and skills from around the world. Discretion reigned regarding the noble patients' treatments since the Ton rarely acknowledged having undergone improvements, such as vision correction or dental work. But the case was the opposite regarding making or breaking the doctors' reputations. A happy patient singing a doctor's praise at Almack's could bring an influx of new business to a practice on Harley Street or ruin someone with a story of a procedure gone wrong. That fear of jeopardizing it all was almost worse than the fear of not reaching his goal.

Then he faced the street and took a deep breath of crisp morning air. "Time to perform some miracles today," Nick said to Chromius. "But first, we need a proper breakfast." The dog cocked his head to the side, his ears perked up in curiosity.

In these early morning hours, Nick usually prepared for the patients scheduled for the day. Today, he needed to prepare himself and calm his nerves. Steady nerves meant steady hands, the most important part of a successful outcome.

"Number one is the Earl of Langley's cataract," Nick told Chromius as if he needed to lay his day's plans out to his terrier companion and let him know that his signature procedure was first. The Earl of Langley was a demanding and domineering character with old-school manners and a vast network among Europe's wealthiest families. Nick's signature procedure, his cataract surgery, would be the first of the day. The terrier emitted a soft, melodious whine which apparently expressed his understanding, so Nick continued to talk as usual on their walk to the patisserie .

"You probably remember that he was a difficult patient when I first operated on the earl's right eye a few years ago."

Chromius gave a quick shake of his fur.

"I know, I know. It's a risk but he helped Felix, Alfie, Andre, and me to get a toe hold in with the well-paying patients of the Ton, Britain's aristocracy." Cocky as the earl was, he'd admitted to his friends that he'd had various procedures done and had thus inadvertently sent Nick some of the best patients—the aristocrats who could pay and wanted none of their ailments to show, at any cost. They paid well for discretion and yet gossiped handsomely. It was the right mix for Nick and the others because they were good at their jobs. Very good. When they made their patients happy, those happy patients sent more. As long as this mill was fed, the young doctors at 87 Harley Street stood to profit handsomely, or at least break even, considering the pro bono cases.

Chromius let out a series of high-pitched yips when they turned the corner, and the bakery came into view.

"Yes, we're almost there. But you know that the Earl of Langley is one of our first and best clients in London. Without his support, I couldn't buy you the sausages you like so much."

Nick attributed most of the earl's ailments to a life in splendor. He had already removed the cataract on the earl's right eye, Felix had saved his smile with plenty of gold fillings and porcelain, and Alfie had supplied the concoctions to cure his various other infirmities—and the earl paid handsomely for their discretion and ongoing care. He was the best kind of patient—the needy kind.

The iron handle was cold, and the heavy door with the glass pane screeched as Nick walked into the bakery. It was a little gem in Marylebone, this part of London. He'd gotten to know the owners, a French family from the Loire Valley. The Patisserie de la Loire was a small, well-lit shop with just one wire chair at the far end of the glass counter. No matter how early Nick showed up, the display was always stocked with decadent treats: flakey croissants, stuffed mushrooms, braided brioches, and glazed eclairs. The madeleines, however, were never on display. They had to be eaten hot and were made to order. They were the fluffiest golden biscuits, elongated seashells shaped with the sweet aroma of salted butter and powdered vanilla sugar. Felix wouldn't approve of these lovely breakfasts and preferred that Nick eat something non-sugary, like carrots, instead. But he wasn't a horse, so the treats at seven in the morning were just fine, thank you very much.

" Ah, voilà Monsieur le Docteur ! Come on, come on! I am just powdering another batch. Sit! Please," the owner said with his lovely French singsong of linked consonants and vowels.

Just when Nick turned at the ring of the small bell over the door, a cold gust of wind from outside sent a chill down his back. And then he felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. A demure being walked in, dressed fashionably in a walking gown of plain cambric muslin, with a simple wrap front and frock back.

Time slowed and Nick's body hardened. He tried to keep his gaze on the pastries, but he couldn't help but steal a glance at her face. Perfect features would have been an understatement. Rules of harmony could learn from the combination of what he should know were just eyes, a nose, and cheeks. But her lips were so pink that a raspberry in a swirl of cream would envy her. A few stray curls fell from her hood and looked softer than the ermine trim. It was absurd, madness, and probably assault if he tried, but his hand flinched with the need to caress the stray curl and tuck it behind her ear. Nick's mind wandered to a kiss, but he controlled himself by clenching his fist and burying his hands in his pockets.

Nonsense. He needed breakfast before preparing for surgery.

He blinked over his shoulder again. Her pelisse of emerald-colored sarcenet trimmed all around with ermine flew up in an elegant wave as she stepped inside the patisserie. The fabric wrapped around her figure, and he imagined running his hands along the glossy fabric—this had to stop! He wasn't fourteen.

Nick squared his shoulders and dug his fists deep into his pockets. Madeleines would have to be enough. He had to get out of here.

She wore a lined hood low on the forehead, tied with a bow in the same shade of green. Oh, he'd pluck the hood off her head and take a deep breath of her perfume. She smelled like fresh flowers and green leaves, the essence of morning and freshness and—he gulped—virtue.

Nick froze. His mouth had gone dry, his body hard, and his mind blank. Every last hair on the back of his neck pricked up. He'd get the pastries and leave.

Unfortunately, that's not how it played out.