The Surgeon's Lady. Carla Kelly

       Praise for Carla Kelly, recipient of a Career Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews and winner of two RITA^® Awards

      ‘A powerful and wonderfully perceptive author.’

      —New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney

      ‘A wonderfully fresh and original voice …’

       —RT Book Reviews

      ‘Kelly has the rare ability to create realistic

      yet sympathetic characters that linger in the mind. One of the most respected … Regency writers.’

       —Library Journal

      ‘Carla Kelly is always a joy to read.’

       —RT Book Reviews

      ‘Ms Kelly writes with a rich flavour that

      adds great depth of emotion to all her characterisations.’

       —RT Book Reviews

      About the Author

      CARLA KELLY has been writing award-winning novels for years—stories set in the British Isles, Spain, and army garrisons during the Indian Wars. Her speciality in the Regency genre is writing about ordinary people, not just lords and ladies. Carla has worked as a university professor, a ranger in the National Park Service, and recently as a staff writer and columnist for a small daily newspaper in Valley City, North Dakota. Her husband is director of theatre at Valley City State University. She has five interesting children, a fondness for cowboy songs, and too many box elder beetles in the autumn.

       Novels by the same author:

      BEAU CRUSOE

      CHRISTMAS PROMISE

      (part of Regency Christmas Gifts anthology) MARRYING THE CAPTAIN

      The Surgeon's

      Lady

      Carla Kelly

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Dedicated to the men of the Channel Fleet,

      whose wooden walls kept the Corsican Tyrant from England’s shores

      Primum non nocere—First do no harm.

      Credited to Galen, Roman physician,

      and English physician Sir Thomas Sydenham

       Chapter One

       Taunton, June 28, 1809

      For several months Lady Laura Taunton had avoided the desk in her sitting room because of two letters, one inside the other, she had not the heart to destroy. She had thrown them away one evening, but retrieved them before the maid did her early morning tidying. She shoved them back in the desk before continuing her restless slumber.

      Suddenly, the letters mattered. She blamed her change of heart on her nearest neighbor, who had invited her to tea. Lady Chisholm probably had no idea of Laura’s feelings. She merely wanted to drink tea and share a happy event.

      Laura had dressed with deliberate care for the tea. It was a year since death had released Sir James Taunton from the apoplexy that had turned him into a helpless infant, and made her his nurse for the previous three years. She would dress in gray this afternoon, signaling a departure from black, which she hoped fervently, if unrealistically, never to wear again.

      She hadn’t missed James for a minute, but no need for the neighbors to know. A widower thirty years her senior, James had paid attention when her father, William Stokes, Lord Ratliffe, had shared her miniature around his circle of acquaintances and promised her to the highest bidder.

      She had been eighteen then, a student at Miss Pym’s Female Academy in Bath, sent there by her father for an education, with no idea that he would demand so high a return on his investment.

      “My dear wife was never able to give me an heir,” James had told her after their wedding. “Your duty is to give me an heir.”

      During the first year of her removal to Taunton, a country seat near Bath, Laura had asked herself daily why she had not bolted from school at the mere idea of what her father had planned. During those nights when James Taunton heaved, gasped and thrust over her, she cursed her own weak character.

      She did not become a mother, for all James’s attempts that consumed his energy and left her feeling no satisfaction beyond relief when he finished and left her room. When he suffered a stroke while out riding, his groom carried the baronet back to the house, practically dropping Sir James at her feet like a game bird. She hoped the staff saw her calm acceptance as well-bred courage, rather than gratitude.

      Stung by her own faulty character, she had thrown herself into nursing her husband. By year two of his apoplexy, she could have challenged anyone to improve upon her delivery of competent care. She conducted herself with dignity when he died, and dressed in black. Beyond tea at Chisholm, that was her world.

      That was a year ago. This afternoon, she had walked to Chisholm, happy not to be suffocating in black. Tea with Lady Chisholm usually demanded no more of her than to nod and interject the occasional short word. But this afternoon, Lady C had dealt her a blow. Sitting right next to her neighbor and holding her hand, was a slightly younger version of Lady Chisholm.

      As Laura had hesitated, Lady Chisholm waved her closer. “Do forgive me, my dear. It’s just that …” She glanced at her sister and burst into tears. “This is my sister and it has been so long.”

      It was simply said, but Laura felt her heart pound from the look the sisters exchanged. What have I done? Laura thought. Then: Can I change it?

      Not wanting to startle her own servants when she returned to Taunton, Laura allowed the tears to slide down her face in silence. She had perfected this art through many a night in her late husband’s bed. By the time she reached the estate, hers alone now, she was in control again.

      She had a moment of panic when she could not find the letters. She reminded herself that it had been three months since she had retrieved them, and dug deeper in her desk. She sighed when she unearthed them.

      She held up the first one, the only one she had had the courage to read in March. Read this first! had been scrawled across the folded sheets in Miss Pym’s handwriting. Even after eight years and a supreme dislike of Pym, Laura had obeyed.

      She read it again, knowing the news still had the power to shock her. She read again of Lord Ratliffe’s dealings with the Female Academy and his relationship to Pym, his illegitimate sister. Her breath came faster as she read again Pym’s news that she had two half sisters. You are too old now to remember Polly Brandon, she read again, but perhaps you recall Eleanor Massie. Eleanor was now Eleanor Worthy, wife of a captain in the Royal Navy, who had somehow managed Lord Ratliffe’s incarceration in a Spanish prison, as part of a botched hostage exchange. “Good riddance,” Laura said. The Worthys had gone to Bath because Lord Ratliffe had told the captain, probably to taunt him, Laura thought sourly, his wife was one of three illegitimate daughters educated by Miss Pym. Pym had written,

      Eleanor has told Captain Worthy her whole history, and they are here to find her sisters—Polly Brandon, who still resides here, and you, Lady Taunton.

      Laura put down the letter and stared at the ceiling, remembering her relief when she read Pym’s confession that Eleanor had not succumbed to a fate similar to the one Lord Ratliffe had proposed to her, but had fled Bath with nothing