‘Even so, I should like to see her, for my own peace of mind, you understand. I will not delay the family long. I will be in and out quicker than a ferret in a rabbit hole.’
The affronted butler invited Joe to wait in the hallway. A few moments later he was ushered into the drawing room, where he was met by the Countess of Braxton. ‘Dr Warriner! I cannot thank you enough for coming to Bella’s aid.’ She squeezed his hands effusively and appeared far too grateful, almost on the cusp of tears, which he supposed made up for her daughter’s blatant disregard.
‘No thanks are needed,’ he said as his eyes automatically scanned the room for Clarissa. The object of his desire was sat in the far corner of the room, embroidering something on a small hoop, and did not bother looking up. Her usually smiling face contorted into a frown. A niggling voice in his head told him she was rude, but he ruthlessly blocked it out. An angel like Lady Clarissa couldn’t be rude. Not like the other one. His eyes drifted to the other side of the room where the younger sister was sat on a sofa, her injured ankle raised on pillows and her eyes narrowed in hostility. Next to her, Dr Bentley was packing away his equipment, which included his ever-present bleeding cups—the old fool’s usual treatment for everything. He glanced at Joe and nodded curtly.
‘Warriner.’
Always just Warriner. Never the title he had earned. The upstart. The charlatan who had the audacity to set up a rival practice in Bentley’s town, taking money which should rightly be his. What did that Warriner know anyway? Joe had studied medicine only since the age of eight. Toiled at medical school in Edinburgh in order to qualify top of his class. Built up a sizeable practice despite the horrendous reputation of the Warriner family because he was damn good at what he did. And he had worked hard, honing his craft every single day since. One of these days Joe would allow himself the pleasure of saying exactly what he thought, then quashed the idea instantly. ‘Good afternoon, Dr Bentley. How is our patient?’
‘She is my patient now and as such I will not discuss her treatments with you.’ Dr Bentley turned towards the Countess. ‘Good day, your ladyship. I will await your further instructions regarding the other matter and hope Lady Isabella sees some sense shortly.’ And off he marched out without a backwards glance. Bentley was obviously miffed. Clearly Lady Isabella had been a delight for him, too.
Because it was what he had come here for, Joe walked towards the sofa and smiled. ‘How is your ankle?’
‘Better now.’ She appeared about to burst into tears. The tears tugged at his heartstrings. He was always too soft and prone to want to rescue. A fault he had apparently been born with and one he had long given up fighting. Without being asked, he lowered himself on to the corner of the sofa and took her hand. He almost dropped it again when odd tingles shot up his arm and he found himself frowning at the anomaly. That had never happened before and certainly shouldn’t be happening with her.
‘Sprains can hurt like the devil, but in the main they heal quickly with rest.’ He glanced down at her raised foot and the obvious swelling. ‘You need ice.’
‘Dr Bentley said hot water was best for sprains.’ Lady Braxton appeared apologetic at usurping Joe’s advice. ‘He insisted the ice pack was removed.’
‘Ah...’ Tact and diplomacy were second nature, especially when it came to Dr Bentley’s diagnoses. As physicians, they were always at odds. Dr Bentley was mired in tradition and Joe dared to break that mould. ‘Tell me, Lady Isabella, did your ankle feel better with or without the ice?’
‘With,’ she said without hesitation, ‘I queried it at the time.’ It was clear she held Dr Bentley in little regard, so she evidently had a brain underneath all the attitude. Joe smiled in encouragement and watched her dip her eyes.
‘She also refused to be bled.’ Lady Braxton appeared at her wits’ end at her daughter’s stubbornness. ‘Do you think she needs to be bled, Dr Warriner?’
‘I cannot see any cause for it.’ Joe could never see any cause for it as he had never seen the painful procedure achieve any beneficial effects. However, saying such things out loud tended to bother people brought up to revere the wisdom of physicians—most of whom still clung to ideas from the Dark Ages—as well as the supposed health benefits of slimy leeches. ‘Ice and rest are the best treatments for sprains. If the pain is severe, some willow bark tea would not go amiss either.’ She peeked up at him through her ridiculously long, dark lashes and offered him the ghost of a smile. More tingles bounced along his nerve endings and his collar felt suddenly tight. Perhaps Clarissa was watching him. Joe ignored the desire to turn around to check. ‘Do you mind if I take a quick look? Just to be certain it is nothing more than a common sprain?’
Lady Isabella nodded warily, the smile now gone, and bit down on her bottom lip, so he did a swift examination and sat back. ‘Most of the swelling has already gone down. I dare say it will be gone completely by Friday and you will be dancing at the assembly with your sister... Will you all be attending the assembly on Saturday?’
How pathetically unsubtle he sounded to his own ears. Joe cast a glance towards his patient’s sister, who was still jabbing her embroidery with a needle and had yet to acknowledge his presence. He silently willed her to look to no avail, ignoring the niggling voice of outrage in his head. Angels weren’t meant to be rude. They were meant to be...well, angelic. Maybe she hadn’t noticed him. A weak excuse, but she deserved it.
‘Yes, of course we are going!’ Lady Braxton smiled encouragingly at her daughter. ‘And it is splendid news that Bella may be fit enough to dance! Would you like some tea, Dr Warriner?’
‘I wouldn’t want to trouble you...’
‘It’s no trouble at all. No trouble at all.’
She bustled off to ring the bell, leaving Joe with Lady Isabella. Bella—a very pretty name and one he was not sure suited her. It was too vivacious for the quiet, introverted woman next to him. Bella conjured up images of a different sort of girl. One who was witty and a pleasure to be around rather than the one currently judging him in silence. At a loss as to what else to do or say to her, and in view of her older sister’s blatant indifference, Joe smiled his reassuring doctor smile. ‘Is the pain very bad?’
‘No.’ She stared down at her hands and the customary brittle awkwardness she always incited hung heavily in the air. The big question was, did he bother attempting further conversation with either sister, when one was intent on ignoring him and the other looked like she was disgusted by him, or did he quietly wait for the tea? Or better yet, did he make a hasty excuse and escape? Joe had never felt so uncomfortable in his own skin before. He was seriously contemplating the leaving when she finally spoke in a voice so small he had to strain his ears to hear. ‘I should have thanked you for your help this morning. It was unforgivably rude not to have done so at the time...but I am not very good at... Since the... What I mean is...’ She sighed and seemed to steel herself. ‘What I mean is...I wasn’t quite myself.’
Her dark eyes were troubled as they briefly locked with his before she stared back at her clasped hands again. A very becoming pink blush burned on her cheeks. A blush which did not fit with the sour and dour character he had attributed to her. Was it possible Lady Isabella was shy, rather than rude? Or was his innate good nature frantically hunting for an excuse for her bad behaviour? He did have a tendency to attribute better character traits to people than they actually had. Women especially. Joe decided to probe further rather than trust his overly benevolent instincts.
‘You had just been sabotaged by a potato. I doubt I would have been particularly sociable if the tables had been turned.’ Those dark eyes slowly lifted and locked with his.
‘I think you are being kind.’
He