A Scoundrel of Consequence. Helen Dickson

Ah, here is Dr Brookes.’ She stood back to allow a good-looking man in his mid-forties enough room to make his examination.

      ‘Good day, Captain Lampard.’ Dr Brookes proceeded brusquely and cheerily as was his custom. ‘It’s not every day I get a distinguished patient to attend—especially one who’s been shot.’

      Cassandra brought a tray of salves and implements, placing them on a small table at the side of the bed.

      Dr Brookes wrinkled his nose as he glanced at the injury. ‘That looks to be a nasty wound. Right, we’d better get to work before you bleed to death. I don’t think the shot’s too far in so it shouldn’t be especially difficult getting it out. There’ll be a bit of digging around to do though. Can you stand it?’

      ‘Captain Lampard has recently returned from the war in the Peninsula, Dr Brookes,’ Cassandra provided. ‘I’m sure he’s had to endure worse.’

      ‘Spain, eh?’ Dr Brookes remarked, impressed. ‘Would have gone myself—had I been years younger.’

      ‘Miss Greenwood speaks the truth. I have seen and endured many things during the war, but this is the first time I’ve been shot—so get on with it, Dr Brookes.’ William looked at the young woman who had taken a stance beside him, a wicked twinkle in his bold, appraising eyes. ‘Are you to stay and hold my hand, Miss Greenwood?’

      ‘No,’ she replied primly. ‘I shall stay to assist Dr Brookes.’

      ‘Pity. Here is my last scrap of dignity. Enjoy it while you can, but I would advise you to step back, Miss Greenwood,’ he said, eyeing with trepidation the probe Dr Brookes was holding. ‘My temper is about to take a decided turn for the worse.’

      Cassandra spoke no word, but stood aside while Dr Brookes began his work.

      William gritted his teeth against the white shards of pain that were shooting through his shoulder as Dr Brookes probed the wound. Mercifully, within a matter of minutes the shot was located and removed.

      ‘There—all done,’ Dr Brookes said with a satisfied smile, showing his patient the round ball. ‘The wound’s clean so it should heal nicely—though you should keep it rested for a time.’

      ‘Thank you for all that you’ve done. You won’t go unrewarded, I shall see to that.’

      Dr Brookes nodded, and there was a gleam in his eye when he glanced at Cassandra. ‘A small donation to the institute wouldn’t go amiss, is that not so, Cassandra? Have your own physician keep an eye on the wound—and perhaps take some laudanum if the pain becomes severe. Now excuse me if I leave you in Miss Greenwood’s capable hands. I must fly—patients to see at the hospital.’ Hesitating by the young boy’s bed as he began to mumble and mutter, to twist and turn, he placed a hand to the child’s forehead. Shaking his head, he turned to go. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow to take another look the boy.’ He paused a moment longer before enquiring haltingly, ‘Will—your mother be at the institute?’

      Cassandra lowered her head to hide a knowing smile. She had long suspected that it was her mother, as well as his concern for the children, that drew Dr Brookes to the institute. ‘Yes, she should be—around midday, I think.’

      Looking pleased, Dr Brookes nodded and hurried out.

      Cassandra turned back to Captain Lampard to dress his wound, amazed that he had endured the whole procedure without a murmur.

      ‘What happened to the boy?’ William asked. ‘How did he come to be in that state?’

      ‘That’s Archie,’ she answered, her expression softening when her gaze rested on the child’s face. ‘His mother sold him to a sweep for a few shillings, poor mite.’

      ‘How old is he?’

      ‘Six years. Climbing boys don’t stand a chance, any of them. So many die of consumption and they are never washed except by the rain. No one knows the cruelty that they undergo. Bullied and beaten by their masters, they rub their poor elbows and knees raw climbing the dark flues. Their flesh must be hardened. This is done by rubbing it with the strongest brine. But often their skin—if they survive—doesn’t harden for years.’

      ‘And Archie’s feet?’

      ‘Burnt by the fires—which aren’t always completely out.’

      If William was disturbed by this, apart from a tightening of his features he made no comment. Though her voice was without expression, before Miss Greenwood turned her face away, he was startled to see tears in her eyes mingled with compassion for the child.

      ‘He doesn’t complain, but I know he’s in constant pain. It is my intention to find him a situation—but it will be weeks before he is fully recovered. One thing is for certain, it will not be with the sweeps—although it will be hard to place him. Your coat is ruined, I’m afraid,’ Cassandra said, picking it up and placing it at the bottom of the bed with his equally ruined shirt.

      ‘I’ll get another.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose you will,’ she said, smiling then and forcing her eyes from the bronzed, dark, fur-matted muscular chest. The shoulder muscles jerked as she proceeded to dress his wound. This close he smelled of shaving soap and sandalwood. Overwhelmed by every scandalous tale she had ever heard about him, she willed herself to ignore the strength of the lean, hard body stretched out on the bed beneath her, to complete her task and send him on his way.

      William caught his breath at her unexpected glowing smile and started in amazement when he felt a peculiar, inner tingle from her touch. Light fell on her face only inches away from his own. She really was the most glorious creature, even in her sombre dark grey dress buttoned up to her throat. Her softly scented skin glowed like silk, and her mouth was a soft coral pink. Her hair was honey gold, pulled up to a chignon, but from which endearing rebellious tendrils escaped. Her blue-green eyes gleamed as she smiled.

      ‘Do you work here all the time?’ he asked.

      ‘No, not all the time. I do have a life away from here.’

      ‘I’m glad to hear it. It would be a crime for you to spend your entire life in this dreary place. There are better areas of London to focus your energies on. I would have thought young ladies could find more interesting and exciting ways of passing their time.’

      Giving her a long, leisurely look, there was a twist of humour around his attractively moulded lips. The smile building about his mouth softened the hardness of his jaw and made him appear in that moment the most handsome man in the world to Cassandra. Then, suddenly, his direct, masculine assurance disconcerted her. She was acutely conscious of his close proximity to her and she felt a mad, unfamiliar rush of blood singing through her veins.

      Instantly she felt resentful towards him. He had made too much of an impact on her and she was afraid that if he looked at her much longer he would read her thoughts with those brilliant clever eyes of his—which he did when her cheeks pinked, bringing a darkening to his eyes and an amused, satisfied smile to his lips.

      ‘I am sure you’re right, Captain Lampard, but not nearly as rewarding or as worthwhile. What I do here is more than a pastime for me and I am content with the way things are. The institute was brought into being by my father with the intention of providing aid and provision for destitute children—a place of Christian charity. He died three years ago. Like Dr Brookes, he was a surgeon at St Bartholomew’s hospital. It’s quiet just now, but it gets busier towards supper time. My mother is keen to carry on what my father began and devotes many hours to the institute. We also have volunteers who come to help for what they can do, not for what they can get. The institute really couldn’t manage without them—or the benefactors, who help fund it. We feed the children, provide them with articles of clothing, which are donated to us, and if they are sick or injured we patch them up as best we can.’

      ‘Even though some of them are criminals, uncivilised and riddled with vermin and diseases they might pass on to you?’ William asked, raising himself up so she could pass the bandage over his shoulder.

      ‘Yes,