Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

Tom sent his assistant a scathing glance. “Barnaby, do you know what lying has in common with bullfighting?”

“No, sir.”

“If you can’t do it well, it’s better not to do it at all.”

His assistant looked sheepish. “The truth is, Mr. Severin, I’m terrified of lice. Just hearing about them makes me itch all over. One time I had dandruff and thought it was lice, and I was so distraught, my mother had to mix me a sedative. I think my problem started when—”

“Barnaby,” Tom interrupted curtly, “you’re talking about your feelings. It’s me, remember?”

“Oh, yes. Pardon, Mr. Severin.”

“I’ll deal with the boy. Meanwhile, arrange to have every room on this floor thoroughly cleaned, and every inch of carpeting sponged with benzene.”

“Right away, sir.”

Tom glanced at Bazzle. “Come,” he said, and left the office.

“I won’t bathe,” the boy declared anxiously as he followed. “I quit!”

“I’m afraid anyone who works for me is required to give a fortnight’s notice—in writing—before they’re allowed to quit.” Which was pushing the margins of his strict honesty policy, but Tom would make an exception for a boy who was being eaten alive by parasites.

“I’m illegitimate,” the boy protested.

“What has that to do with it?”

“Means I can’t write no notice.”

“The word is ‘illiterate,’” Tom said. “In which case, Bazzle, it appears you’ll be working for me indefinitely.”

The boy complained and argued every step of the way as Tom took him to Cork Street. Most of the avenue was occupied by Winterborne’s department store, with its marble façade and huge plate-glass windows filled with lavish displays. The store’s famed central rotunda, with its dazzling stained-glass dome, glowed richly against the gray November sky.

They went to a much smaller and more inconspicuous building at the far end of the street. It was a medical clinic and surgery, established for the benefit of the thousand or so employees of Winterborne’s.

Two years ago, Rhys Winterborne had hired Dr. Garrett Gibson to serve on the clinic’s medical staff, despite people’s suspicions that a woman wasn’t suited for such a demanding profession. Garrett had dedicated herself to proving them wrong, and in a short time had distinguished herself as an unusually skilled and talented surgeon as well as physician. She was still regarded as something of a novelty, of course, but her reputation and practice had grown steadily.

As they approached the front doors of the clinic, the boy stopped and dug in his heels. “What’s this?”

“A medical clinic.”

“Don’t need no sawbones,” Bazzle said in alarm.

“Yes, I know. We’re only here to use the facilities. Specifically, a shower bath.” The clinic was the only place Tom could think of to take him. There would be tiled rooms, hot water, medicine, and disinfectants. Better yet, Garrett wouldn’t dare turn them away in the light of the favor Tom had done for her husband.

“Wots a shower baff?” Bazzle asked.

“It’s a small room with a curtain all around. Water comes down like rain from an overhead fixture.”

“Rain won’t scare off me chats,” the boy informed him.

“A good scrubbing with borax soap will.” Tom pushed open the doors and ushered the child inside. He kept a hand on Bazzle’s shoulder, half suspecting the boy might bolt. Upon being approached by the waiting area receptionist, a brisk and businesslike matron, Tom said, “We need an appointment with Dr. Gibson.”

“I’m afraid Dr. Gibson’s schedule is full today. However, Dr. Havelock may have an opening, if you wish to wait.”

“I’m too busy to wait,” Tom said. “Tell Dr. Gibson I’m here, please.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Tom Severin.”

The receptionist’s frown vanished, her eyes widening in something like awe. “Oh, Mr. Severin , welcome to the clinic! I very much enjoyed the market fair and fireworks display you put on for the public when your underground railway was opened.”

Tom smiled at her. “I’m so glad.” As he had intended, paying for the city-wide celebrations had not only enhanced his image, but had also dazzled people into overlooking the multitude of aggravations the railway construction project had caused.

“You’ve done so much for London,” the woman continued. “What a public benefactor you are, Mr. Severin.”

“You’re too kind, Miss . . .”

“Mrs. Brown,” she supplied, beaming. “Pardon, sir, I’ll fetch Dr. Gibson right away.”

As the woman hurried away, Bazzle looked up at Tom speculatively. “Are ye the most important man in London, sir?” he asked, scratching his head.

“No, that would be the editor-in-chief of The Economist . I’m lower down on the list, somewhere between the police commissioner and the prime minister.”

“How do ye know who’s above and below?”

“When two creatures meet in the jungle, they both have to decide which one of them would kill the other in a fight. The winner is the more important one.”

“Analogy,” Bazzle said.

That surprised a grin out of Tom. “Yes.” The boy might be sharper than he’d originally thought.

Before another minute had passed, Garrett Gibson came to the waiting area. Her dark dress was topped with an impeccably white surgeon’s smock, her chestnut-brown hair pulled back tightly in a neat braided coiffure. She was fresh-faced and smiling as she reached out to shake his hand as a man would. “Mr. Severin.”

He grinned at her and returned the shake in a firm grip. “Dr. Garrett Gibson,” he said, “this young fellow, Bazzle, is one of my employees. He’s in need of your professional attention.”

“Master Bazzle,” Garrett murmured, inclining her head in a brief bow.

The boy regarded her in bewilderment, scratching the side of his head and neck.

“Bazzle,” Tom said, “bow to the lady . . . like this.”

The child obeyed halfheartedly, still staring at Garrett. “ She’s the sawbones?” he asked Tom skeptically.

“As of now, the only licensed female physician in England,” Tom said.

Garrett smiled, her incisive gaze traveling over Bazzle as he scratched. “The reason for your visit has quickly become apparent.” She glanced at Tom. “I’ll have a nurse give you the necessary items and explain how to delouse him at home—”

“It has to be here,” Tom interrupted. “He lives in a rookery, so it can’t be done there.”

“Why not at your house?” Garrett suggested.

“Good God, woman, I’m not bringing him past my front door.”

“It’s just a few chats,” Bazzle protested. He smacked his palm on his forearm, adding, “Maybe a couple o’ biddies too.”

“Biddies?” Tom repeated, recoiling and brushing at his own sleeves reflexively. “You have fleas?”

Garrett looked sardonic. “Very well, I’ll have a nurse see to him here. We have a tiled room with a shower bath and a sink, where he can be thoroughly—”

“No, I want you to do it, so I know it’s been done properly.”

“Me?” Her fine brows lowered. “I’m about to have lunch with my sister-in-law.”

“This is an emergency,” Tom told her. “The boy is suffering. I’m suffering.” He paused. “What if I make a large donation to the charitable institution of your choice? Name the place, and I’ll write a check before I leave.”

“Mr. Severin,” she said crisply, “you seem to think your money is a panacea for every problem.”

“Not a panacea, a balm. A wonderful soothing balm, especially when applied in a heavy layer.”

Before Garrett could reply, a new voice joined the conversation, coming from behind Tom.