A Taste of Gold (Miracles on Harley Street #5)

Prologue

Miracles at Harley Street came in many forms: spectacles from Nick, the oculist, for the far-sighted to read again, ointments from Alfie, the apothecary, to soothe irritated skin, splints from Andre, the orthopedist, for those whose legs needed to be supported, bandages from Nurse Wendy who cured with her kindness as much as her hands, and gold fillings from the dentist on the second floor.

And so it was again when Felix Leafley allowed himself a rare, clean satisfaction upon finishing the treatment of the girl in his chair: a gold foil filling set exactly right, a young patient spared a future of needless toothaches because his training and patience had met and bested the problem.

He lifted the oral mirror and watched the surface catch light and reflect brightness where there’d been darkness before.

Another quiet rescue. He was the one dentist in London who packed gold so fine it behaved like tooth, the one whose Royal Warrant brought the ton to his door.

He was the only one who reduced a painful cavity to a mere speck of gold gleaming on a tooth.

But being the only one meant being alone.

And he couldn’t change that because the name on his door was not the name his love knew.

As long as Baron von List built secret registries—names, addresses, trades—and used licenses and patrols to harry Jewish businesses and silence anyone pressing for equality, Felix kept to an English alias no clerk would flag.

He would not risk his patients who needed him.

Nor would he ever risk the practice or the people who kept it standing: Nurse Wendy, Alfie, Nick, Andre—family at 87 Harley Street.

I must keep silent.

Because names leave trails, trails lead to doors. Baron von List opens those doors—and people vanish.

But he had not given up. He would not. He would never stop trying to find her.

“Is it all done, then?” The young countess’s voice, careful and bright, cut into his thoughts when his young patient, Emily, hopped off the chair.

Felix turned to mother and daughter. The girl had her bright curls tied with a ribbon so he could work; her fingers gripped the pelisse folded in her lap as if it could steady her better than any hand. He kept his tone even, the one that lowered shoulders and unfurled breaths.

“Open once more for your mother, Miss Emily.”

She did, brave in the way children are when bravery is shown to them. Felix held the mirror so her mother could see his work. The small mirror caught a neat golden gleam; no ridge, no gap.

“Bite,” he said, and she obeyed. As she clenched her teeth to show her mother her smile, there was no sign of his work. The countess tilted, searching.

“It’s tiny now,” she said with palpable relief, and he knew it was meant as a compliment. His work must be invisible; so must his name.

Emily tipped up her chin, shamelessly proud. The new gold winked only when she opened wide. Her mother let out the breath she’d seemed to have been holding during the treatment.

“Oh, Dr. Leafley, you’ve worked a miracle for Emily.” The distance of rank slipped; only a relieved mother remained. “Others would have waited until it grew worse or—well.” Her lips pinched against the thought she would not name.

“We did not wait.” He stripped off his gloves and set them square on the brass tray. “You brought her early. We needed only the smallest fillings.”

“In a few years she’ll make her debut,” the countess said, eyes warm with gratitude and calculation both. “Her smile must be impeccable. Thanks to you, it will be.” Her gaze drifted to his hands. “Where did you learn such precise work? It shines—so small, so smooth.”

“In Vienna, your grace.” He let a contained smile touch his mouth. “Many years ago.”

In another life entirely.

“You’re much too young to speak so.” Her voice softened. “Thank you, Dr. Leafley.”

Emily made a proper curtsey, grave as a duchess. “Thank you, sir.”

“Bravely done,” he told her, and meant it. “If it troubles her in the future, send word. I will call.”

“We shall.” The countess adjusted her daughter’s shawl with hands that trembled now, the need for stillness had passed. Fine muslin whispered; the door murmured shut behind them.

Felix stood a moment with his palm flat to the brass tray, feeling the last warmth the metal had stolen from his hands. These tiny gold fillings would hold if they were minded.

Nurse Wendy slipped into his treatment room with hot water; steam loosened the sharp scent of clove oil. Her apron sat crisp at her waist; her gaze combined affection and practicality in equal measure.

“She did very well,” Wendy said.

“Indeed.” He lifted the tray so she could pour.

“A boy waits in the hall,” Wendy added. “Kitchen maid’s son from number seven. He tried to be a man about it, but—” a small tilt of her hand “—he’s frayed.”

His schedule ran tight as clean stitches: a gentleman at the hour; a nervous lady at the half; two more beyond. He could keep to it and no one would fault him. He pictured a boy with a cap crushed between his palms, pride held together with stubborn thread.

“Bring him in, please,” Felix said.

The boy entered with his jaw set for battle. Tall but thin. Felix rolled his sleeves—not for show, only to feel the work in his forearms—and warmed his instrument in his palm so the metal wouldn’t startle.

“Name?”

“Tom, sir.”

“Tom.” Felix tipped the lamp a fraction, coaxing clean light across the chair.

“How old?”

“Twelve.” Tom tightened his grip on the cap. “My mother said you could help me.”

“Let me see.” The front tooth told its story at once: a fall, a split edge. Not a case for gold but porcelain. “Market cart?”

A flush rose in patches. “I might’ve slipped. To show I could.”

“Of course, you could.” Felix brushed clove oil to the gum and spoke while he worked. “We’ll make it neat. Then you may boast properly.”

Tom’s lip trembled once. “I can’t pay, sir.”

“Does your mother make the delightful plum tarts?” Felix asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then consider this our thanks for the smell of her plum tart drifting up our stairs.” He raised his voice a shade. “Wendy, is there anyone else waiting for me?”

“Not yet,” came her dry answer from the passage.

“Then I’ll tend to our young acrobat right away.”

Tom’s chest rose as if a button might pop. He managed a strangled “Thank you, sir,” and ducked his head. When the door closed behind Wendy, Felix let himself take one long breath that reached the tight place under his ribs. This is the work. This is what matters.

A short while later, the boy left lighter and with another appointment in a day.

The nervous Lord Chesterfield followed; he left steadier than he arrived.

Outside, the lamplighter’s pole flashed in the window and moved on.

Inside, Felix’s hands did exactly what they’d been trained to do: swift when swiftness spared pain, patient when patience protected what could be saved.

Between one patient and the next, Vienna rose in his mind again.

It had taught him how to seal gold so it held like enamel—no show, only strength.

It had taught him to see a flinch before it arrived, to pause a heartbeat longer than pride advised, to trust what lived in his fingertips.

His mentor had covered his hand once and waited until the urge to rush quieted.

He had believed he’d never leave that room with its cold air and varnished benches and stern windows. He had believed he would give anything to stay because she was near. In the end, he had given more than he had counted.

And London asked its price still. The notice on his desk—dull paper, thin ink—requested the particulars of every tradesman with a Royal Warrant for the sake of “order.” Names. Birthplaces. Affiliations. Lists chase of Jews.

Alfie had set his palm over another notice this morning and said, very mildly, “Let it sit.”

Now, Felix stared at the threat as if it had been no different than the one all those years ago in Vienna.

He trimmed the lamp’s wick until the flame burned clean. The burnisher lay curved and faithful on the linen. He set it down too carefully, as if it might break. Warmth stirred under his breastbone at the memory that always arrived with Vienna; then a practiced chill swept it aside.

He had lost her.

Maisie.

All those years ago.

Harley Street—his name on the door, his days full, his nights honest—had come at a cost that did not leave visible marks.

So he kept working. He kept his borrowed name tidy and his care exact.

He hid his hope where it could not be used against them.

Felix did not speak her name into the room.

He let it rest, where it had learned to be muted.

Then he turned back to his chair, to the next small rescue, and—because hope never learned its lesson—allowed one promise to settle with the weight of a vow.

One day, I’ll find you, Maisie.

My love.