“I’m not a drinker. You know that.”
“And you know I am. Come on. You can keep me from falling off my barstool while telling me all about your blue devils. As a physician I’m obligated to keep confidential whatever a patient tells me.”
Gerard stood and slipped on his overcoat, then donned a hat that slid down over his ears. He never could find a fit to complement his scrawniness. “Come on, Your Grace. Those old toads dismissed you for the day. Sitting out here punishing yourself won’t do a bit of good.”
Did he truly want the best for his patients, or was he in it for the glory? The question burned on Wynn’s tongue. He’d been too afraid to ask it, but his pride was trampled by the misery of needing to know. The walls of the ivory tower he had built of his medical achievements began to quake. “Do you think I caused Harkin’s death?”
“I think we do the best we can as physicians. The rest is in the Almighty’s hands. And Him you are not.”
“They’ve taken everything from me. If I can’t be a surgeon, what am I?” How pathetic he sounded. A more degrading state than having his license revoked, and one he’d never suffered before. It left him disoriented like a body of tissues and organs with no bone structure to keep him upright.
Gerard set his hand on Wynn’s shoulder, drawing Wynn’s gaze up. There was no derision in his friend’s face, but empathy as only another physician could understand.
“You’ll be my good friend Wynn MacCallan, duke of the northern Pict lands, champion of the weak, and fighter for extraordinary causes. Fighters don’t sit around feeling sorry for themselves. So get up and squire me to the pub.”
The rain had turned to a more Londonesque drizzle by the time they traversed the hall of mazes in the RMA and stepped out onto the street. A few brave souls hurried by, tucked under the safety of their brollies, while black taxis idled on the street corner in hopes of a fare.
Gerard started toward one of the taxis. “I know a good place in Mayfair—”
“Somewhere closer.” Wynn flipped up the collar of his coat. “I need to walk.”
“In that case, the Unholy Friar’s it is.” Gerard waved off the eager driver who scowled at Wynn. Whipping out a black brollie, Gerard plunked it over his head and followed Wynn. “Why must you Scots always insist on walking in the rain?”
“Clears the mind.”
“Brings about sinus pressure and soggy shoes, is more like it.”
Wynn dodged a slushy pothole. “Shall I carry you, ye wee softie Englishman?”
“I hope you’re not as insulting to that lovely wife of yours.”
The thought of Svetlana’s soft arms wrapped around his neck and her sweet breath near his ear sent Wynn’s heart thrumming. “She’d be more fun to carry, that’s for sure.”
“Why is she not here to curb your acerbic mood? I could certainly use the reprieve.”
And just like that all thrumming stuttered to a halt. He’d wanted her to come, had nearly said yes when she asked. The black velvet of her mourning gown washed out her face and dulled the purple beneath her eyes, but her wraps of sorrow did nothing to diminish the strength that had drawn him from the beginning. He should have taken her in his arms and kissed her senseless until there was no doubt how much he wanted her near him.
Then he’d seen Sergey hovering behind her with his declaration still ringing in Wynn’s ears.
“She remains at Thornhill,” Wynn said at last.
“Oh, that’s a pity. I should like to have seen her, then again, I know sitting through that interrogation day after day would have been rather distressing to someone of her regalness.”
“She doesn’t know.”
“Doesn’t know what?” Gerard tilted his brollie in defense against a spitting gutter over a bookshop. In an instant he whipped around, knocking Wynn’s hat askew with the tip of his umbrella. “You haven’t told her, man?”
“Let’s cut down the explanation and blame it on pride.” Wynn jammed his hat farther down on his head and hurried on.
Gerard dashed to keep up, splashing water on the back of Wynn’s legs. “Pride or not, you must tell her.”