Page 5 of Prescription for Sin

“I see. Are you a prostitute, Mr Hughes?”

He coughed, face aflame. “Yes.”

“Your tastes lean toward the masculine?” she asked, her composure returning.

His cheeks turned crimson, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Not…not exclusively.”

She resumed her examination. “It’s not my place to judge.”

Emma forced herself to maintain professional distance, though her mind flooded with disappointment.

“And you, Miss Brown? Do you work at the hospital?”

“Yes.” She moved to his other side, dragging her chair closer.

“You’re quite skilled.” His dark eyes followed her movements as she cleaned another wound.

“I find satisfaction in it.” She tried not to notice how his muscles tensed under her touch. “More fulfilling than needlework.”

“You live here alone?”

Emma answered carefully. “A housekeeper attends me. And Mr Sotheby next door watches the grounds.” She gestured for him to hold the lantern closer.

“Your reputation…”

“I’m thirty, Mr Hughes. Too old for such concerns.” She tied off a stitch, aware of his gaze on her lips. “Besides, I’ve delivered a quarter of this community’s children. They need my skills too much to gossip.”

“What brings others to your door?”

“Similar circumstances to yours. Nowhere else to go.”

He hissed as she applied alcohol to the wound.

Emma stood quickly. “You must rest. Mrs Norris will collect the tray in the morning. Goodnight, Mr Hughes. “

She fled to her room, needing to get away from his presence. Something about his story rang untrue, although she knew not what. Despite his confession of being a prostitute for other men, she could feel his gaze studying her form and lingering in places. He did say he serviced both sexes…

Heat bloomed where his eyes had lingered, her heart racing as she dressed his thigh wound, the powerful muscles beneath contracting and releasing. What kind of danger had she invited into her home? And why did the thought thrill her so?

There was only one way to find out. Emma sat at her desk with a fresh parchment paper and dipped the quill in ink. She was certain writing to Helen would help make sense of her situation.

5 December 1840

Dearest Helen,

I find myself in need of your sensible counsel. I have done something either remarkably foolish or surprisingly brave, though at present I cannot determine which.

You know me too well to be shocked that I have taken in another patient in my home. However, this one is different. A man, Helen. Young, educated, and harbouring secrets I cannot quite fathom. He claims to be a gentleman’s companion of the most intimate sort, yet something in his manner rings false. His speech is too refined, his knowledge too broad, his bearing too noble for such a profession.

I should send him away. Indeed, every rational thought demands it. Yet I find myself drawn to observe him with an interest that goes beyond mere medical curiosity. The way he looks at me, Helen—not as a physician or a spinster or even a lady, but as a woman—stirs sensations I scarcely know how to categorise.

You will laugh, but I found myself trembling today while dressing his wound. Me! Who has stitched countless injuries without a flutter. His thigh muscle tensed beneath my fingers, and I felt such heat rise to my cheeks that I feared he would notice. Worse still, I believe he did notice, for his eyes held such knowing warmth that I nearly forgot myself entirely.

What am I to do? My mind warns of danger while my body betrays me with the most unprofessional responses. Even now, writing this, I can feel the ghost of his gaze upon my skin.

Tell me I am being foolish. Remind me of my dedication to medicine, of the risks to my name. Say anything to shake me from this peculiar spell he seems to have cast.

Your devoted friend,