“I know. Believe me, I know. But he isn’t.” He shifted toward her. “In trying to understand his most unusual condition, I presented him a map of the world and asked him where we were and where he lived. Imagine my astonishment when he points to France and mentions rue des Francs-Bourgeois in Paris. ’Tis a street I know very well, given my wife’s parents had lived on that same street prior to the Revolution that pushed them out. ’Tis still an impressive area frequented by those of affluence and one Robinson Crusoe would have never frequented. I have written to his address to inquire, but without a name or house number, it may lead nowhere.
“So you see, he may not remember who he is, but he still remembers factual things outside of this Crusoe. Factual things that must pertain to his own life. I have therefore concluded that his condition isn’t one of full-blown fantasy but an inability to decipher between fact and fiction. That doesn’t make him deranged. It only makes him…unreliable. Something to keep in mind whilst you board him.” He plucked up a piece of stationery from his cluttered desk, along with an ink-slathered quill. “I will require your name and address before you depart with him.”
She angled toward him. “Don’t you think that a man who claims to have met cannibals is a walkin’ liability I ought to avoid? Regardless of if he knows life outside of this—this Crusoe? What if he should eat me and all of my neighbors in honor of his cannibal friends? What then, sir?”
Dr. Carter burst into laughter and caught himself against the desk, eyeing her. “He won’t—” He laughed again, shaking his head. “No. He won’t. Not this man.”
She set her hands on her hips. “I’m bein’ quite serious and I wish to Joseph you’d be, too. I’ve seen far too much to question what is or isn’t rational. Men are never rational, sir. They only pretend to be and I’m rather worried I may end up swimmin’ in my own blood.”
His features sagged. “I cannot predict what he will or will not do, but the man is genuinely compassionate and protective of others. Throughout his entire stay, he’s done nothing but lecture us on our inability to tend to patients and is always getting out of bed to assist others in the hall, despite having orders that he rest. If that assurance isn’t enough, I suggest you let him walk out into the world, Mrs. Milton. For he is neither your responsibility nor mine. So what will you have me do? The choice is yours.”
Oh, now, that just wasn’t fair. She sighed. “I’ll find a means to board him,” she grouched, waving toward the parchment. “The name is Mrs. Georgia Emily Milton and the tenement is 28 Orange Street. Orange. Like the bastard who destroyed Ireland.”
Dr. Carter paused, leaned over the parchment and sloppily scribed her name and address. “Thank you.”
This was going to be a mess. She’d probably have to hover over this Brit like a hen over a cracked egg. But then again, if there was anyone who understood cracked, it most certainly was her. “About how long will I have to board him? Exactly?”
“That I cannot say. It could be a few days or several months, depending on how long it takes for someone to recognize him.”
She refrained from groaning. Though she hated submitting to guilt, for it was a pesky emotion that always got her into trouble, she owed the man this much, given it was her reticule that had sent him under an omni.
Dr. Carter set aside the quill, swiped up the satchel and held it out. “I will leave this in your care and will be in touch. Make the money last. We don’t know how long it will be before anyone claims him.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ll ensure both he and it lasts.” She reached out and tugged the small, weighty satchel from his hand. Why did she have this eerie feeling that she was taking on a man who was about to do far more than ruin her month?
CHAPTER THREE
She Ventures, and He Wins.
—A Comedy Written by a Young Lady (1696)
A MAN OBNOXIOUSLY CLEARED his throat from behind Georgia where she still lingered before Dr. Carter’s desk. “I realize the hour is anything but convenient, Dr. Carter, but I’m asking to depart all the same before I lead a revolt in the hall. None of the goddamn linens in our beds have been tended to in over three days. For those men who have fluids pouring out from more than the usual places, I find it vile and disturbing. You and your minions ought to be hanged for your wretched disregard for humanity. Hanged.”
The harsh British voice startled Georgia into turning to the man. She instinctively pressed the small satchel in her hand against her hip, her eyes jumping from a broad chest up to a taut, masculine face. The man didn’t sound quite as mindless as Dr. Carter had led her to believe.
The Brit, who lingered all but a stride away, glanced down at her and paused. His black hair had been brushed back from his forehead with tonic, giving him the appearance of the distinguished gentleman she had met on the street, but that sizable scab and the large yellowing bruise marring the right side of his cheekbone and square jaw made him look like one of the boys. Dried blood from the day of the accident still spattered parts of his knotted cravat and full sections of his outer gray coat near the width of his broad shoulder.
Merciful God. They had never even washed his clothes. The rest of him appeared to be well scrubbed, though she sensed it was not anything the hospital had bothered with, but something he had insisted on.
Shifting toward her, he searched her face and drew in a ragged breath. “I know you.”
She smiled awkwardly. “Aye. That you do.”
He half nodded. “Yes.” His shaven face flushed. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize anyone would be coming.” Stepping toward her, he reached out and swept up her hand, making her almost drop the satchel that was still pressed in the other one.
Her heart flipped at the base of her throat as he bent over to softly kiss her bare hand.
No one but her Raymond had ever kissed her hand like that. It was the signature of a gentleman who could see beyond the rags. Georgia swallowed against the tightness of her throat and tried to tug her hand loose only to find that the man wouldn’t let go. “Might I…have my hand back? Or do you plan on keepin’ it?”
He glanced up and tightened his hold, that large hand taking complete command of hers.
It was obvious he planned on keeping it.
With a solid twist, she tugged her hand out of his, a rising heat overtaking her cheeks. “I realize things are a bit muddled for you, Brit, but when I ask for somethin’ back, you give it back. Be it a hand or anythin’ else. Agreed?”
He edged closer, his pensive expression gauging her. “I apologize for being unable to remember the details pertaining to our relationship, but are you my wife?”
Her lips parted. Oh, the poor man’s mind had been completely bashed. He didn’t remember her at all, and given his cheeky behavior on the street that day, he probably did have a wife, damn bastard.
Dr. Carter cleared his throat from behind. “Mrs. Crusoe, I recommend you heed my earlier advice of not riling him into a form of paranoia. ’Tis best.”
Mrs. Crusoe? Georgia swung toward the man and pointed at him. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no. There isn’t goin’ to be any of that.”
“Mrs. Crusoe.” Dr. Carter’s voice dropped to a low warning. “I hold you responsible for his health and his delicate state of mind for as long as he is in your care. I will say no more.”
Oh, this couldn’t be right. How could feeding into a man’s delusions be responsible? It wasn’t! She swiveled back, intent on settling this before she took him home. “Never you mind him, Brit. You and I most certainly aren’t married. In truth, I barely consider us friends.”
“You barely consider us friends?” His mouth tightened as he continued to stare. “That isn’t at all what I remember.”