Free Carla Kelly by Libby's London Merchant Page A

to do with laudanum, will you, sir? I wonder . . .” he mused.
    He ran his hand over the man’s other leg, which showed bare from the knee down. He touched a pit mark that Libby had noticed, and another, and traced his hand up a long scar, faintly red, that meandered from ankle to knee by a jagged route. He raised the man’s nightshirt and Libby looked away.
    “Really, Dr. Cook,” she exclaimed, and devoted her attention to the cotton wadding again.
    “Yes, really, Miss Ames,” he said, a touch of asperity in his voice that surprised her. Alert now, the doctor leaned forward and unbuttoned the man’s nightshirt, looking at his chest with clinical interest, and uttering “H’mms” and “My words,” until Libby sighed in exasperation.
    “Dr. Cook, what are you doing?” she whispered as the chocolate merchant stirred and muttered something imperative.
    The doctor didn’t answer right away. He buttoned the man’s nightshirt again and then reached in his bag for a jar of salve, which he smoothed on the leg. He stepped back to survey his handiwork.
    “It would appear to me, Miss Ames, that selling chocolate is a damned dangerous line of work. So glad I am a physician, instead.”
    “Whatever do you mean?” Libby asked. The man moaned in his sleep and she rested her hand alongside his cheek for a moment until he was quiet.
    “I mean that this man has been in battle, and not overlong ago. I wonder, do you suppose he might have been engaged in last year’s little tiff in Belgium?”
    “Waterloo, do you mean?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Oh, surely not.”
    “Then we can only surmise that London is a singularly dangerous place,” said the doctor. “Or can it be that people there take exception to chocolate?”
    After another moment in silence, Dr. Cook draped a long strip of gauze over the merchant’s leg and pulled up the sheet. “Perhaps we will learn something tomorrow,” he mused out loud. He looked toward the lawn, which was in shadows, now that the sun was behind the house. He returned the vial of laudanum to his bag. “He should sleep soundly enough.”
    “If he wakes?” Libby asked.
    “I’ve left some sleeping powders on the night table, Miss Ames,” he said. “If he should come around, try to get him to eat something.” He held out his hand.
    She took it formally and then blushed as he enveloped her hand in both of his.
    “I’m sorry this has fallen to your lot,” he said.
    “It is I who should apologize to you, Dr. Cook,” she insisted as she tried to work her hand out of his warm grasp.
    Dr. Cook blinked and pushed up his spectacles. “Whatever for?” he asked.
    She couldn’t look at him. Libby freed her hands and put them out of reach behind her back. “I didn’t mean to call you . . . Well, you know, I called you Anthony a while back.”
    “It is my name,” the doctor said.
    “Yes, but you are a physician,” Libby said stubbornly. “And I hope you will overlook my rudeness.”
    He leaned toward her for a brief moment and winked. “My dear Miss Ames, contrary to popular opinion, at least that which is noised about by physicians, being a doctor does not make me God. You may call me Anthony anytime you choose.”
    She shook her head. “It won’t happen again. Please believe me.”
    He smiled faintly at her reply, but there was little humor in his eyes as he sighed and bowed himself out of the room, setting the glass ornaments shivering on the table as he passed by.
    With a smile of her own, Libby went to the window and looked down on the front drive, where the doctor’s horse had stood so patiently. She watched as the doctor heaved his considerable bulk onto the animal, gratified to see that he was more agile than she would have suspected.
    As if he knew she was watching, the doctor turned in the saddle and waved to her. She waved back and then rested her elbows on the windowsill, wondering at the strangeness of her mood, wishing that he had not left her with