And with those words, she was free. Why had it taken so long? Svetlana hugged the old woman, kissing her soft cheek. “
Taking a square of linen, Mrs. Varjensky scooped up a handful of the puffs and bundled them into the makeshift sack. “Take.
Take and give
A bell sounded in the adjoining servant’s hall. Svetlana ducked through the door and looked at the mounted board where the bell for the front door was rocking back and forth on its spring. Who would call at this late hour?
Svetlana handed the wrapped pastries back to Mrs. Varjensky. “Keep them warm for me. I’ll fetch them in the morning before I leave for the train.”
Hurrying to the Stone Hall, she was met by Glasby, dressed in his customary uniform of black coat and starched shirt. Either he never slept or he went to bed fully dressed, otherwise he could not have beaten her to the door.
Unaffected by the ungodly hour of the surprise visitor, he notched his chin up and opened the door. “May I help you?”
Icy air swept past the opened door and swirled around Svetlana. She drew her robe closer about her and tried to peer past
Glasby’s shoulder from where she waited in the shadows. It wouldn’t do to have the visitor spot the lady of the house in a
state of
The man outside was thick with a fine coat buttoned about him and a hat shadowing his face. He spoke too low for Svetlana to hear him.
“We have no lady here by the name of Angel, if a lady she be,” Glasby intoned. “There is a place one village over where you might have better luck.”
The man tried to push his way inside. “Mac!”
Svetlana rushed from her hiding place. “Leonid? What are you doing here?”
Leonid Sheremetev, looking more wan than when she’d last seen him in Paris, brushed past Glasby and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Blessed holy God, you alive, Angel! I come tell you. You and Mac in danger.”
Chapter 31
A solitary circular window perched high on the wall like the all-knowing eye to the official proceedings instigated within its domain. Its singular existence emitted a pale shaft of mid-morning sunlight that mocked the inner stale air with nature’s brilliance. Wynn would endure the shatters of glass cutting his skin if he could hurtle himself through that window and escape the droning from the pasty old men seated in front of him.
His fate would be decided today. A doctor or a duke. Like any man before the gallows, he wished a swift end to this torturous waiting.
Glasgow’s Medical Hall was none so grand as the Royal Medical Academy, but among the offices, laboratories, and classrooms a chamber had been reserved for said torture. What it lacked in thumb screws and iron maidens it made up for with a long table occupied by seven serious-looking men sitting in severely uncomfortable chairs. The defendant’s chair, the one Wynn occupied, was most likely fitted with a loose spring if the pain at his left backside was any indication.
Dr. Stan, a retired optician, took the seat of precedence at the center of the table. Adjusting his eyeglasses, he looked across the table at Wynn.
“Dr. Lehr’s character reference, along with several other key witness testimonies from Hȏpital du Sacré-Coeur in Paris, have provided this review board a great deal to contemplate. As you know, Dr. Lehr is a trusted physician and his word goes a long way—”
“Get on with it,” came the voice of a disgruntled orthopedist from farther down the table. He’d called Wynn a quack from day one and made no bones about the relish with which he would strip Wynn’s license for good. Orthopedic surgery had been around for centuries, and those old boys didn’t much care for the newfangled ideas associated with cardiology. A straightforward bone was more their game while blood made them squeamish.
Dr. Stan glared at the interrupter. “As I was saying, such high recommendations do not weigh lightly on the decision of this board. They are a great marker in the testimony of character of Mr. MacCallan. No! Pardon me. His Grace, the Duke of Kilbride.”
Wynn didn’t know which was worse. Being called by his name or his title. Above all he was a doctor.
“It is unfortunate anytime a patient succumbs, and we all as oath-taking physicians understand the risk of such loss. The only reason this review is being conducted is because you proceeded with a technique not consented to by your superiors from which your patient later died due to post-op complications.”
“An unethical operation,” huffed Orthopedic Man.
“A new operational method with lifesaving possibilities,” Wynn corrected, rubbing his sweating palms against his thighs.