Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Chapter Two

Returning to a Former Life

Earlier that afternoon at the London Docks in Wapping

A lthough she had thought the stench of the Brussels hospital the worst she had ever experienced, Amy Sinclair now decided the odors of the docks in Wapping were far worse. Atop the smell of unwashed men and rotting fish, a sickly, sweet scent had her pulling her hanky from her redingote pocket to cover her nose.

“There you are,” her mother said as the matron hooked an arm around hers and pulled her from the melee of passengers disembarking from the Fairweather . “I was beginning to think you had missed boarding the ship.”

Realizing the sweet scent was her mother’s perfume, Amy held her breath a moment before she answered. “I had to make arrangements for Father,” she said, glad her mother seemed to know where they were going. She was being pulled along through a crowd that seemed determined to move in the other direction.

“What’s this about your father?” Margaret Sinclair asked once they were clear of the passengers but before they were about to merge with those from another ship that had pulled into port ahead of the Fairweather . “And why are you dressed entirely in black, darling? You know it doesn’t suit you.”

From the number of men in uniform, Amy knew the last of the British troops from the Kingdom of the Netherlands had finally received their orders to return home.

“They’re mourning clothes, Mother,” Amy replied, just then noticing her mother was wearing her usual bright colors and a hat festooned with a riot of silk flowers. Only a black armband suggested someone in the family had died. “Where are yours?”

Free of the crowd and headed toward a glossy black town coach, Margaret Sinclair barely slowed her steps. “My modiste hasn’t yet delivered them,” she said, her chin rising slightly. “And just what sort of arrangements have you made?”

“Father’s coffin is to be delivered to Havenhurst on the morrow,” Amy replied, referring to the Sinclair country estate in Kent. She did her best to fight the tears that threatened at the reminder of her late father.

For Colonel Elias Sinclair to survive a final battle against Napoleon’s troops only to suffer from a fever and die three months later seemed the worst possible fate for a military man. At least most of his troops had already been dismissed and sent on their way back to British shores before the colonel had taken a turn for the worse.

Amy couldn’t help the guilt she felt, though, sure her father had caught the fever from her. The physician from the field hospital in which she had worked through the worst of the battles claimed her recurring exposure to typhoid would keep her relatively safe. Sure, she had developed a mild case, she had elected to remain in her father’s quarters for a couple of days to protect her long-term patients from harm. That her father had decided to actually use his quarters that particular week was unusual—and unfortunate.

His case of typhoid proved fatal.

“You won’t be expected at the funeral,” Margaret said as the driver opened the door. She glanced around. “Where are your trunks? Your father’s things?”

Amy glanced behind them, relieved to see that Mark O’Riley, her father’s valet, was following, pulling a small cart through the crowd. “Corporal O’ Riley will just be a moment,” she said, wishing her mother had more regard for those who worked in service. She pulled several coins from her reticule and gave it to the valet once the trunks were loaded on the back of the coach. “Thank you, sir,” she said.

“You’re welcome, miss. Don’t you be worrying about your father. I’ll see to him next.”

Nodding, Amy turned around to find her mother staring at her. “How much did you give him?”

“Three guineas.”

“ What ?”

“A bargain, really, for what he has to do and the distance involved, Mother,” Amy said as she stepped up and into the coach. “Father also wanted to see to it Corporal O’Riley was paid for his services for these past few months.”

Margaret followed, taking the seat facing the direction of travel. She looked as if she was about to argue, but her eyes suddenly widened. “You cut your hair.”

Blinking, Amy lifted a hand to her mop of blonde curls, the hair barely covered by her nurse’s cap. “Oh, I had to. When I first arrived with Father,” she replied with a shrug. “I couldn’t have it coming out of its pins and landing in some poor soldier’s face while I was trying to…” She stopped speaking, knowing her mother would be appalled to hear what she’d done as a nurse in the field hospital. She would be horrified to learn what Amy had seen—not the ghastly wounds or the gore of surgery—but every square inch of a man’s naked body. Many of them. Some more than once or twice. “Perform my duties,” she added lamely. “It will grow back.”

The expression on Margaret’s face softened. “I worked as a nurse once,” she whispered. “I used to follow the drum before you were born.”

Amy’s eyes rounded. “You did?” She had never known her mother to do something so selfless. Every time her father had left England on some military campaign, Margaret had elected to remain in London or at their country estate, Havenhurst.

“I couldn’t stomach it,” Margaret stated. “Which is why I was sure you would return home far sooner than you did. Why, you must have been the last one there,” she accused.

“Not quite.”

“No doubt, you have seen some horrid things.”

“I have,” Amy admitted.

“Done some things you never thought you would do.”

Amy blinked. Had her mother performed some of those acts? Her mind didn’t immediately recall the things she’d done during surgeries but rather the one instance when she had seen to relieving a man’s incessant pain.

She wouldn’t have even known what to do except she had watched from the darkness as another patient had taken his member in hand. Rubbed it in his fist until he moaned in what she had first thought was pain. Afterward, his face had taken on a look of relief so profound, she thought he had died. Instead, he had slept through the night for the first time since his arrival.

Performing the act for her favorite patient had seemed only right. Morphine could not relieve him of all of his pain, and his moments of sleep were fleeting. The few minutes it took to see to his pleasure gave her time to study his body, gauge his reactions, and marvel at the workings of an organ she knew little about.

When his release sent him into a maelstrom of pleasure, she had thrilled at seeing the first glimpse of a smile appear on his otherwise pinched face. Thrilled at how one of his hands covered hers before lifting it to his lips to kiss her knuckles. But it was his whispered words that had sent her heart soaring.

“You’ve been ruined, haven’t you?” her mother asked.

Amy jerked in the squabs. “What? No,” she said as she shook her head.

“What have you done?”

Blinking, Amy considered how best to respond. “I held a beating heart in my hand whilst a physician removed a bullet from a man’s chest,” she stated, almost hoping her mother would faint. “The ribs were spread apart by some awful instrument,” she explained, “just enough so my hand could reach in,” she added.

Margaret raised a hanky to her mouth. “We’re never going to find a man willing to marry you if you speak of such atrocities,” she said from behind the embroidered linen.

Not having thought of marriage since before she had left for the Kingdom of the Netherlands, Amy could only shake her head in disbelief. “Then I suppose I shall not speak of them,” she replied.

Thoughts of the easy rapport she had with her father had tears threatening once again. He understood why she had insisted on going with him. He knew the risk, but he also knew what she would learn whilst working as a nurse. Battlefield hospitals required quick thinking and a clear head, a strong stomach and the ability to step away if it all became too much.

“It’s a good thing I’ve made an appointment with a matchmaker who can help,” Margaret went on, oblivious to Amy’s brief moment of mourning. “We’re to pay a call on her tomorrow. I understand her fee is quite high, but she has managed to make some rather lucrative arrangements for her clients.”

“Tomorrow?” Amy repeated. “But…we have to be on our way to Havenhurst,” she argued. “Father’s body—”

“Will be buried under the oak in the family cemetery, just as he requested,” her mother stated. “We’ll leave as soon as the appointment is over, stay one night in the country, and return to London the following morning,” she explained, apparently making up the itinerary on the spot. “You’re already too old for most men to consider you, Amy. We cannot keep delaying this.”

Lacking the energy to protest, Amy settled into the squabs and closed her eyes. If she could hold out one more year without getting married, she could take her inheritance and live an independent life. Her father had assured her there was enough in the dowry account to live comfortably.

But then she’d never have a baby of her own. A husband to dote on as she had imagined whilst working at the hospital.

At least she’d be sleeping in her own bed tonight. There she could imagine her favorite patient lying next to her, whispering the words he had said on more than one occasion.

Her momentary thoughts had her wishing she was still with him in the field hospital.