The Viscount Made Me Do It by Diana Quincy

Hanna’s new patient was in tremendous pain.

She couldn’t send him away. Even though she usually only treated people that she knew or were referred by a trusted source. Inviting strangers into one’s home came with risks, the most daunting being her grandmother’s death stare.

“Please have a seat,” Hanna said when they reached Baba’s office. “I am Mrs. Zaydan.”

Presenting herself as a Mrs. invited respectability. People tended to make scurrilous assumptions about a female who put her hands on male patients. Her family would not abide any impropriety. At the first hint of scandal, Mama and Citi would forbid her from seeing any patients at all.

Settling behind Baba’s desk, she reached for her wood-cased pencil. “Your name, please. I believe you said Griffin? Mr. Griffin?”

He paused. “Erm . . . Mr. Thomas. My name is Griffin Thomas.” He spoke in frosty, polished tones. Definitely a toff.

She recorded his name in Baba’s old ledger. It was a familiar, even comforting, task. She’d always taken down her father’s medical notes. “How long have you been in pain?”

“Why do you assume I am in pain?” He asked the question as though she’d insulted him.

“I am a healer. It is obvious.” There were clues he could not hide: fine lines at the corner of his hooded, elongated eyes and the dark smudges beneath them. The pinched lips and grooves bracketing his mouth spoke of strain and lack of sleep.

“Too many patients hide their discomfort,” she continued. “I cannot help a patient who will not truthfully reveal what ails him.”

He bristled, a muscle spasming high on his right cheek. He wore a day-old beard that prickled over a precise jaw that could have been shaped by a glass cutter. “I see no point in bothering other people with my discomfort.”

“How long has your arm been paining you?”

“For two years. Since I fell from my mount. Or, rather, since the animal was shot out from under me.”

She looked up from Baba’s ledger. “You are a soldier?”

“I was. Briefly. I was injured during my very first battlefield engagement, so I can hardly say that I saw combat.”

“Your injured shoulder suggests otherwise.”

He ignored her remark. “I returned home after the accident. I am of little use in battle with my arm as it is. I can no longer ride the way I used to.”

“That must be difficult.”

“I survived.” His cool tone discouraged empathy. Yet Hanna detected a tinge of sadness in his guarded gaze. “Many men . . . and others . . . who should be alive are no longer with us. Can you cure me?”

It was obvious from the way he asked the question—with an arrogant condescension that he barely bothered to hide—that her new patient doubted Hanna’s abilities.

“I shall try my best.” Mr. Thomas was not Hanna’s first skeptical patient and would not be her last. “Please remove your tailcoat, waistcoat and shirt.”

Surprise stamped his angular face. “I beg your pardon?”

Hanna stood. “I will need to examine you to determine the extent of your injury.” She crossed over to the porcelain bowl containing fresh water and bathed her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him stand and remove his cravat. She busied herself with drying her hands until Mr. Thomas was bare from the waist up.

Hanna faced her patient. Despite any physical limitations, he possessed an athletic physique. His wiry body was powerfully cut, as though someone had taken a knife to it, carving generous shoulders, a sculpted abdomen and streamlined hips. His only physical imperfection was his slightly withered left arm, and an odd bend at the elbow that made the limb appear deformed.

Her gaze dipped to the smattering of hair that dusted Mr. Thomas’s ridged stomach before disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. Divested of half of his clothing, it was easy to discern the muscular curve of Mr. Thomas’s buttocks and the bulge at the apex of his strong thighs.

“Should I sit or remain standing?” he asked coldly.

Heat rose on Hanna’s cheeks. Had she been staring? “Yes, certainly.”

“Certainly stand or certainly sit?”

“Remain standing for now. And then I will ask you to sit upon the examining table.” She used her most authoritative voice, shoving aside her very inappropriate interest in Mr. Thomas’s half-naked body.

She silently admonished herself. Why was she being a habla? Only an idiot would behave as Hanna was at the moment. It wasn’t as though she’d never seen a man in dishabille before. She’d lost count of how many partially disrobed male patients she’d treated while working alongside Baba.

Granted, none of them were blessed with Mr. Thomas’s extraordinary physique. Still, his haughty manner certainly did not invite familiarity. Besides, she was a healer, and he her patient. Hanna was accustomed to quashing her feminine longings. Such urges had no place in the life of a bonesetter who could never marry.

“Now”—she issued her usual advance warning—“I am going to put my hands on you as part of my examination.”

“Do your worst.”

She gently handled the affected wrist, testing mobility, probing it with as light a touch as she could. His skin was warm, the dusting of hair along his arm springy and gently abrasive under her gliding fingers. His scent, of shaving soap and freshly bathed male skin, filled the air. The office felt uncomfortably warm.

“Well,” he asked tersely, “what is your assessment?”

“Your wrist is terribly affected.”

“Yes, I am aware.” Again that barely veiled skepticism.

She ignored it. “A callus has formed in your elbow.”

“How does that signify?”

Her hands slid up his arm. “Your elbow is out of joint. This sort of injury frequently occurs when you land on an outstretched hand during a fall, which I suspect occurred when you fell from your mount. Please sit on the examining table.”

When he complied, she inched closer to inspect his shoulder. With him seated on the table, they were almost of a height. Their heads were bowed in proximity, in the way of intimates sharing a secret. He smelled far more pleasant than most of her male patients, who were primarily stevedores, laborers and others who did not bathe regularly.

“Your shoulder has been driven forward,” she said. “When the elbow joint is out of place, it can cause damage to other parts of the arm.”

“That does not sound promising.”

It was not. Mr. Thomas’s arm was a mess. “If I may speak plainly?”

He lifted his chin so that he was peering down his distinct nose at her. “Please do.”

“The major joints in your arm are out of place.” Hanna could not even begin to imagine how Mr. Thomas had borne the pain for so long. Each of his injuries alone was significant; the pain from all three must be almost unbearable. “That lack of proper alignment is the source of your considerable discomfort.”

“Can you make me better?”

She straightened her spine. “I would not be much of a bonesetter if I could not.”

As the bonesetter slid soft hands along Griff’s sensitized skin, it crossed his mind that she might actually be a whore. A damned good one, too, given the way his body reacted.

She almost made him forget his purpose for seeking her out. He certainly didn’t believe she could cure him. Her performance at the coffeehouse demonstrated she knew enough about joints to dislocate them at will. But when it came to his own injury, Griff doubted she would succeed where London’s finest physicians had failed.

The bonesetter resided in a modest but comfortable house off Red Lion Square, a long narrow park best known for the stone watchhouses at each corner. Once a rubbish-filled dumping ground that attracted thieves and other criminals, the renovated square was on its way to becoming fashionable. The bonesetter’s terraced home, situated on a lane off the square, was increasingly surrounded by respectable neighbors such as doctors, shopkeepers, solicitors and watchmakers.

But no respectable woman of Griff’s acquaintance would ever be caught alone with a bare-chested stranger in a closed-door chamber. Women of a certain class did not touch a man the way the bonesetter’s confident fingers explored his skin. He could not imagine her husband, whoever he was, standing idly by while his very attractive wife ran her hands all over strange men.

“How did you hear about me?” she inquired as her warm fingers roamed his chest.

“From the proprietor of the coffeehouse at the end of the lane.”

She pressed a point in his elbow. “Does this hurt?”

He clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

Her fingers shifted. “And this?”

He willed himself not to flinch. “That is even worse.”

Griff surreptitiously studied the bonesetter’s face. Smooth olive skin, wide-angled cheeks and a generous mouth. She’d pulled her hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. The style emphasized the V-shaped point in her hairline at the center of her forehead. Beneath her white apron was a simple, long-sleeved deep burgundy gown. A fichu tucked into the square neckline preserved her modesty. She wore no jewelry.

Perhaps she was trying to play down her substantial sexual appeal. It wasn’t working. Her touch had an alarmingly arousing effect on him.

To blunt the unwelcome bodily stirrings, Griff tore his attention away from the bonesetter to survey her examining room: the desk, one comfortably deep chair tucked by one of two sashed windows, and two hardback chairs opposite the desk. The lone embellishment on the wall was a rather macabre sketch of a skeleton. There was no sign of his mother’s necklace.

“Can you raise your arm?” she inquired.

“Only a little.”

“Could you show me? I wish to observe what range of motion you do have, however limited it might be.” Griff did as she asked. He raised his arm a few inches and froze when the pain became too much to bear. She shifted around to run her fingers along the back of his shoulder.

Maybe she’d fooled her own family into believing she was some sort of doctoress. Griff had to admit it was a clever setup. If she was a whore, Mrs. Zaydan could service clients under the guise of semirespectability. Bonesetters might be quacks, but society still viewed them more favorably than prostitutes.

“You may lower your arm.” She stood so close, just inches away. Her feminine scent, something lemony, wafted under his nose.

Maybe there was no husband. Perhaps this was part of her technique, pretending to examine a man while purposely exciting him. Her straightforward, almost stern, demeanor might very well be part of her performance. It definitely had an impact. Griff braced for her to ask for a small fortune to fix his arm. He was tempted to pay her asking price to have those clever hands continue their exploration.

Regrettably, her hands fell away. “You may dress now.” She returned to her desk to scribble in her ledger.

Pulling on his shirt, Griff watched the bonesetter from the corner of his eye. He didn’t know what to make of her. She certainly acted as if she knew what she was about. If this was a performance, Mrs. Zaydan ought to take her talents to Covent Garden.

Once dressed, Griff took a seat opposite her desk. “Can you do anything about my injury?”

She didn’t look up from her writing. “Yes.”

“How can you be certain?”

“I am a bonesetter.” She regarded him with serious, kohl-rimmed eyes. “I fix broken bones and dislocations. And I am quite good at it.”

She radiated such confidence that Griff almost took the woman at her word. Even though he knew she was a swindler. All bonesetters were. “Over the past two years, I have visited the first physicians and surgeons of the day. None of them have been able to mend my arm.”

“They are not bonesetters. It takes a particular skill and years of training to treat injuries such as yours.” She was hardly ancient. The bonesetter couldn’t be more than five-and-twenty, although her brisk, humorless manner made her seem older.

“What do you propose?”

“Treatment that will take anywhere from a fortnight to one month.”

“What will that involve?”

“A great deal of pulling, twisting and stretching. And, of course, a potent oil.”

Of course. She’d arrived at the heart of her scheme. “I suppose you sell this oil.”

“No, indeed. You may purchase neatsfoot oil at the druggist, but the embrocation will cost half as much if you go to a tripe shop on Tottenham Court Road.”

His lip curled. “Neatsfoot oil?”

“It is an oil extracted from the shinbones and feet of cattle,” she explained patiently.

“I know what it is. Am I meant to imbibe this oil?”

She laughed as if he were the ridiculous party. “No, indeed. It is an ointment that must be rubbed into the shoulder daily to soften the tissues in preparation for my manipulation. Morning and night. Use hard friction, rub as vigorously as you can tolerate.”

“What will you charge for this . . . treatment?”

He expected her to demand an outlandish price, four pounds, maybe five.

“I will require two guineas.”

“Per session?”

“In totality.” She came to her feet. “Our appointment is at an end. I have another patient to see.”

Griff blinked. She hadn’t asked for a fortune. Perhaps this was all part of the ruse. Maybe she’d ask for more money once he was deep in treatment.

“Now, if you please.” Her words had an edge. The bonesetter was not a patient woman. “It is time for my next appointment.”

Griff reluctantly came to his feet. He wanted more time with this woman, his only lead after all these years into who killed his parents. “When shall I return?”

“In a week’s time. Until then, please apply the neatsfoot oil daily.”

“And when I come back?”

“I will begin the process of setting your body back to rights.”

She said it with such conviction that Griff almost believed her.

Almost.

Hanna ushered Mr. Thomas out of her office. Unfortunately, there was no avoiding Citi. The front door was by the parlor where the old woman perpetually perched in her worn leather chair by the hearth. The mouthpiece connected to her hookah dangled from the side of her mouth.

The patient paused on his way out. “Good day, madam,” he said politely to Citi.

Surrounded by a silvery haze of smoke, her grandmother raised a corner of her upper lip in response. Citi’s face was always pursed in a permanent scowl, even when she did not disdain you. “Yikhrib baitak,” she muttered in Arabic. “May God destroy your house.”

Mr. Thomas gave Citi a slight bow. “What did she say?” he asked, his lips curving into an arctic half smile.

Hanna avoided looking at her grandmother. “She hopes God will bless your house.”

“That is very kind of you,” Mr. Thomas responded to Citi. “And I wish the same for you.”

The old woman glared at him as she took a heavy puff of the water pipe. A crosshatch of lines framed her thin lips. “Maleun. I don’t trust him,” she responded, still speaking in Arabic. “He’s playing with you.”

Hanna ushered Mr. Thomas out and then rejoined her frowning grandmother.

“You are an unmarried girl.” Citi pounced the moment Hanna returned. “And you were alone in a room with a strange man? Where is Lucy?” Mama and Citi insisted that their maid of all work be present whenever Hanna treated a male patient.

“She was at the store.”

“Abe, Citi, abe.”

“How can helping people be shameful? All I did was treat a patient with a badly injured shoulder. Why do you think your son taught me the art of bonesetting? Baba wanted me to help people.”

“My son—Allah yerhamo, may God have mercy on his soul—was too easy on his daughters. I was married at fourteen. No one asked for my opinion. I’d only met your grandfather once. But I did my duty.” Citi shook her head. “You are twenty-six. So old. Raahut alaikey. You turned down too many good offers from nice Arab boys. The only option now is to wed a widower who needs a wife to look after his children.”

“If I’m too old to attract a husband and time has truly passed me by, then I shall be a spinster. I’ll be able to continue helping people without anyone telling me what I can and can’t do.”

Citiharrumphed. “Wallahi, I swear to God, talking to you is impossible. In my generation, girls listened to their elders.”

Hanna bent to kiss her grandmother’s weathered cheek. “You do deserve a more obedient granddaughter, but you shall just have to make do with me.”

“I don’t know what I did in my life to deserve this.” Shaking her head, Citi settled back in her worn leather chair and reached for her hookah, effectively dismissing Hanna.

Seizing her chance to escape, Hanna stole away to Baba’s office to develop a detailed treatment plan for her new patient.