She smoothed her palms across her breeches, anticipating the butler’s return at any moment, and glanced up at a pair of entwined lovers on the ceiling. It seemed almost certain she would be required to witness one disgusting exhibition after the next, all the way to Greece.
Beggars can’t be choosers. And she was very much a beggar. But in a matter of weeks she would be a stone’s throw from Malta and the surgical school that waited there, with enough wages from this employment to begin the life that only days ago she’d believed was lost to her forever.
All she had to do was restore a spoiled, depraved peer of the realm to health. Which would be a simple matter, because he’d probably exaggerated his injuries in the first place.
If he hadn’t, she would end up coddling His Grace’s ego, even as she attempted to prevent his condition from declining, which she could never accomplish if he was constantly indulging in wild fornication parties, as he was rumored to do—
“His Grace will see you now, Mr. Germain,” the butler announced from the doorway behind her.
Millie bolted from the chair and turned to face the tall, fair-skinned man who’d introduced himself as Mr. Harris. There was still time to change her mind, flee to Philomena and beg for help finding a different employment.
You don’t want a different employment. You want to go to Greece.
“Very good,” she said a little hoarsely, and cleared her throat. “Thank you.”
She tugged the sleeves of her jacket, glancing down, double-checking that her waistcoat was properly buttoned and her curves were truly concealed. Then she picked up her medical bag and followed the butler out of the salon.
They were halfway up the main staircase, with its elaborate, polished stone balustrade, when a shriek of laughter drifted from somewhere in the recesses of the upper floors.
Mr. Harris didn’t seem to notice.
“I understand the stones from the crumbling building facade resulted in numerous injuries to His Grace’s person,” Millie said to him.
“Indeed,” Mr. Harris confirmed. “His Grace was most fortunate not to have received the kind of fatal blow that other poor soul received.”
“Yes. Very fortunate.” According to the stories, the man walking just behind the duke had been struck directly on the head and died immediately, God rest his soul. “Are you aware of whether any of His Grace’s injuries in particular have...affected his mode of living?”
There was another shriek, louder now that they’d reached the top of the stairs, followed by an eruption of laughter.
Mr. Harris’s pleasant face sank into a frown. “His Grace was abed with fever for three days, Mr. Germain. I can assure you it has affected his mode of living enormously.” He lowered his voice and added confidentially, “I only hope you can aid the situation more effectively than the other physician.”
She heard the voices now—a growing hubbub of them as Mr. Harris led her down a corridor past carved doors of rich, burnished wood.
From the sound of things, the situation had been aided already.
“This way, please, Mr. Germain.” Mr. Harris ushered her through a door and into a room teeming with activity—His Grace’s dressing room, apparently, where a pair of lavishly dressed women were peering at their faces in a glass, a trio of sporting men were making a game of tossing coins into a whore’s cleavage from half a room away, and a man with a laughing woman pinned beneath him was on the verge of tumbling off a love seat and onto the floor.
Mr. Harris led her through another doorway into the adjoining bedchamber just as a familiar shriek and burst of laughter came from a table by the window, where a man with a buxom brunette on his lap was apparently playing at more than just cards. A chambermaid collected dishes, a maidservant poured tea, another fussed with the fire in the fireplace. A monumental bedstead of intricately carved wood and lush midnight-blue draperies dominated the far wall. A man paced near its foot, holding forth in rapid French, while two elaborately coiffured courtesans chatted nearby on a chaise longue.
Finally, Millie’s attention landed on the man who lay sprawled against a mountain of pillows.
“You’d best reform your behavior—” he was laughing, calling to one of the courtesans on the chaise longue “—or I might decide you need a punishment.” His smile was a wicked flash of white teeth in a face that rendered the word handsome entirely inadequate—except for a nasty scrape down his right cheek and faint smudges beneath his eyes. He wore a banyan in blue patterned silk and a pair of trousers that rode up just enough on his right leg to give her a glimpse of dark hair sprinkling a thick, solid calf.
The courtesan fluttered her fan near the edge of her décolletage and smiled at him, leaning forward so that her breasts practically spilled from their stays. “Viens-toi,” she taunted, “si tu peux.”
But the duke made no move to get up and carry out his threat.
Mr. Harris guided her forward and stood with her at the bedside. “Mr. Miles Germain, Your Grace.”
And now, eyes black as sin flicked over Millie with calm disinterest. “I should have known any medic recommended by Philomena would be of the youthful variety,” he drawled, and amusement touched the corners of his mouth. “Tell me, Mr. Germain...do you have any medical experience beyond the careful examinations you’ve doubtless conducted in Lady Pennington’s bed?”
A sharp answer leaped to her tongue. He thought she was inexperienced?
“Your Grace.” She swallowed back her initial reply and bowed, even though he hadn’t bothered with courtesy himself. Her eyes glanced off large hands that had doubtless groped any number of chambermaids and went to his left arm, which lay in a sling. “My condolences for the situation in which you find yourself.”
This self-indulgent profligate could question her credentials all he liked, but she was going with him to Greece.
He accepted a glass of something—cognac, perhaps—from one of the courtesans and let her fuss with some nonexistent problem with his banyan. “How old are you, Mr. Germain?”
“Three and twenty.”
“Three and twenty.” Amusement deepened in his eyes. “I might rather have suspected three and ten, would you not agree, Deschamps?”
The man who’d been pontificating at the foot of the bed laughed. “Tenez, I fear you offend,” he said, gesturing toward her magnanimously.
“Not at all,” Millie said evenly. “Perhaps it will comfort you to know that I served four years as a ship’s surgeon. I can assure you, I’ve tended men in far worse condition than yours.”
“And do any yet live?”
“All that could be saved, Your Grace.” She thought a shadow passed across his eyes, but it was there and gone so quickly she couldn’t be sure.
“Hold out your hands,” he instructed.
Her hands? She did as he asked, holding them palms down in front of her until he bade her stop with a wave of his hand. “At least you don’t shake like the last one. Bloody drunkard—I endured twice the pain from all of his bumbling around.” He grimaced and put a hand to his shoulder. “Come and see what’s wrong with this sling. Damned arm’s been aggravating me all day.”
She could already see the sling was tied too tightly. She put down her medical bag, and the courtesan returned to the chaise longue to allow Millie room at the side of the bed. Mr. Harris withdrew to an unoccupied space by the wall.
“I understand Your Grace has just recovered from a fever,” Millie said as she reached across him. Up close, she could see the thick lashes that framed his dark eyes and the laugh lines that creased their corners as he exchanged a few loaded remarks with the women.
“Give