Free Carla Kelly by Libby's London Merchant

she said.
    “Oh, I am well aware,” he murmured, turned his face toward her hand, and kissed it. “Now, is there a doctor, too? My joy would be complete.”
    His eyes closed again.
    Libby snatched her hand away and stared down at him in astonishment. “Dr. Cook, he is a shocking flirt. One would scarcely think he would feel like jollying the ladies.”
    “Shocking,” murmured the doctor as he gazed at Libby, then shook his head, cleared his throat, and shoved his wandering glasses more firmly upon his nose. “Let us continue. Oh, thank you, Candlow. I was needing that.”
    The butler held out his black bag and whispered in the doctor’s ear. “Mrs. Weller said your father had a particular message for you, Doctor. Said to make sure the merchant had money in his pockets before you even put so much as a stitch in him.”
    Dr. Cook sighed. “Do you know, Miss Ames, I think that my father and Hippocrates would never have seen eye to eye on the matter of payment for hire.” He touched her arm. “Those are embedded rather deeply, Miss Ames. You dab now and I will tweeze.”
    The stones cut deeper around the man’s knee. Dr. Cook worked one out before the merchant opened his eyes again, reached down, and grasped the doctor’s hand.
    “Hold him, Libby,” said Dr. Cook.
    She took his arm and held it tightly in her hands. “Now, now, sir,” she said. “He’ll be through soon.”
    To her horror, the man began to cry. Joseph let go of his other hand and retreated from the room. “Anthony,” she gasped, forgetting her manners, “what do we do now?”
    Dr. Cook dropped the tweezers and reached for his black bag, drawing out a vial of amber-colored liquid. “A drop of this will simplify things,” he murmured as he reached for a cup. “Now, then, sir.”
    Tears streaming down his cheeks, the merchant struggled to sit up. He knocked the basin off the bed and the stones rolled across the floor.
    Libby took his face in her hands. “Oh, please, sir. Dr. Cook only wants to help,” she said.
    The man ignored her, reaching for the doctor again. He grasped Cook’s arms. “No. Not any of that.” His hand began to tremble. “If you would, I could manage a drink.”
    The doctor looked at him thoughtfully and put the cork back in the bottle. “As you wish, sir. Candlow, can you concoct a mild cordial for our guest?”
    “I’d rather have whiskey,” said the merchant.
    Dr. Cook shook his head. He lifted the man’s hand gently off his arm and held it steady, watching the slight tremor. “I think a cordial will be more than sufficient, Mr. Duke, is it? Doctor’s orders, sir.”
    When Candlow returned, Libby raised Mr. Duke up and tipped the glass to his lips.
    The man took a surprisingly strong grip on the glass and downed the cordial. “More, please,” he gasped, tugging at Libby’s hand. “Oh, please!”
    Without a word, Dr. Cook poured another glass, this one larger.
    The man drank without a murmur, closed his eyes, and slept.
    “My stars, but he is thirsty,” Libby said. She wiped the corner of the merchant’s mouth.
    “Yes, isn’t he?” agreed the doctor, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Let us continue.”
    Dutifully, Libby dabbed at the wounds, her lips pursed in concentration. She heard Dr. Cook heave an enormous sigh. “Doctor, you must be weary of all this,” she said, without looking up.
    “Me? Oh, well, yes, I suppose,” he said, and he sounded embarrassed.
    He continued his work and Libby heard no further sighs until he finally sat back, rubbing at his neck. She noticed that his shirt was damp with perspiration. His glasses slid off his nose and she caught them expertly and handed them back.
    “Thank you, Miss Ames.” He rose to his feet and stretched, going to the window and leaning out for some moments. In a moment he was back at the bed again, looking down at his patient. “He will have gravel working out of his leg for some time, I think,” he said. “But you will have nothing