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have risen above the lives they were born to? Was it conscience money she was offering? He did not want to believe that. For the first time in years, he found himself admiring a woman, but stopped himself before his foolishness let him down again. She was beautiful, but Sophie had been beautiful too and what had that signified except a cold, calculating heart.
    â€˜I think you should go away and think about this very carefully before you do something you might regret,’ he said.
    â€˜Oh, I intend to. I shall make the most stringent enquiries, have no fear. You will not be burdened by a cabbage-head or an idler.’
    â€˜I was not referring to the assistant, Miss Hemingford.’
    She rose to go. ‘Oh, I know that, Dr Tremayne.’ She laughed as she offered him her hand. ‘But my mind ismade up and those who know me best will tell you I am not easily diverted from my purpose.’
    He could well believe that, he decided, as he took her hand and raised it to his lips before going to the door and opening it for her. He walked beside her down the corridor and passed the open door of the waiting room, already filling up with new patients. ‘You will be hearing from me again,’ she said. And without waiting for more protestations she stepped out into the street.
    As soon as she turned the corner, she stopped and leaned against a wall to stop her knees buckling under her. Had she really had that extraordinary conversation? Had she really promised to find him an assistant and pay his wages? How, in heaven’s name, was she going to do that? She must be mad. She knew nothing about doctors or their assistants or where they could be hired. And, as for making stringent enquiries, she had no idea what questions to ask to verify an applicant’s suitability. And inside her, in the place where her conscience resided, she knew it had all begun as a ploy to keep talking to him, to enjoy his company, to look at that gaunt but handsome face and to wonder what it would be like shining with health. She had been imagining him among the people she associated with, fashionably dressed, his hair trimmed, his cravat starched, dancing with her at a ball, riding with her on the Downs, accepted by her friends as a gentleman. She was mad. Such a thing was not possible.
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    But that did not stop her from thinking about him and his plight. All the way home, she turned the problem of the assistant over in her mind. She had not come to a solution when she entered the house, nor when she arrived in her room to find Amelia in a taking because she had been gone so long and it was time to dress for supper. ‘Susan went to dress Mrs Bartrum an hour ago,’ she said. ‘And now there is no time to arrange your hair in the style we decided.’
    Anne smiled and allowed herself to be dressed and have her hair coiled up on her head and fixed with two jewelled combs; she was hardly aware of Amelia’s grumbling. Her mind was in an untidy room in a back street, drinking tea and making outrageous promises to a man who seemed to have mesmerised her.

Chapter Three
    T he first of the carriages drew up at the door as Anne went down to the drawing room and there was no time for Mrs Bartrum to question her niece about where she had been, for which Anne was thankful. She knew her aunt would be horrified to know she had been visiting a man— not even a gentleman—and been entertained alone in his room. If she knew Anne had given him money and promised more, she would have apoplexy, so it had to remain a secret. It was a pity, because Anne longed to tell someone about it and ask advice about hiring a doctor’s assistant.
    What, for instance, did an assistant do? Did he treat the sick himself or only do the menial tasks such as dosing someone for the ague or binding a cut finger? Any competent person could do that, surely? And how much were they paid? Would her bankers have something to say when she asked for a