Page 69 of Prescription for Sin

For now, though, he lost himself in her sweetness, praying he would find a way to protect her and their marriage before the truth tore them apart.

As Emma dozed against his shoulder in the swaying carriage, Everett wrestled with his conscience. He should tell her about his father’s ultimatum. She deserved to know, and yet…

She would never leave London willingly if she knew the truth. His brilliant, stubborn wife would see it as a challenge rather than a threat. She would insist on fighting, on exposing the corruption, on seeking justice no matter the personal cost. It was one of the things he loved most about her, her unflagging determination to do what was right.

The irony wasn’t lost on him, using manipulation to protect her from manipulation. But the thought of Emma broken, her passion for medicine turned to ash by his father’s machinations… He would rather have her angry at him than destroyed by the truth.

No, he couldn’t risk it. Better to persuade her gradually, to make leaving London seem at least partly their choice rather than his father’s demand. The wheels in his head turned with another dilemma. Did he have the courage to expose his father and Snowden when it came to that? He didn’t know.

She stirred against him, mumbling something incoherent. How many more half-truths would he tell? How long before protecting her became indistinguishable from controlling her? How long before he’d completely lose her trust, and possibly her love, in the process?

Chapter twenty

The Breaking Point

Emma stood at her chamber window, watching daffodils nod in the morning breeze. Two months of marriage had settled into a comfortable rhythm. She had her life in Rochester during the week and her new role as a wife in London on weekends. Yet lately, small discordant notes had begun to creep in, so subtle she might have missed them if she hadn't known her husband's precise habits so well. His study light burned later than usual, though no urgent cases demanded his attention. His normally meticulous medical notes had acquired a new section, carefully documenting practices available in Edinburgh and other northern cities.

Just yesterday, she'd arrived early to assist him with a complex surgery. Through the partially open door of his office, she'd caught fragments of conversation with his father's secretary: "…the position remains open…" and "…time is of the essence…" before they noticed her presence. The secretary had departed with perfect composure, but something in Everett's stiff inquiry about her early arrival had struck a wrong note.

What troubled her most was not any single incident, but rather the careful pattern emerging. Each dinner conversation somehow turned to opportunities outside London. Each social invitation was weighed with new considerations she couldn't quite grasp. Even his father's hostility had softened into something more calculated, as if he was waiting for something.

Now, watching his carriage depart for the Royal College when he’d typically guard their time together with unyielding resolve, Emma felt the weight of her suspicion coax her to act. Her mind, which excelled at spotting patterns others might miss, couldn't ignore the evidence building before her. All of it pointed to her precise, methodical husband working toward some goal she couldn't see.

Emma crossed to his study, knowing she shouldn't, but drawn by an urge to understand. If Everett was planning something, the evidence would be organized with surgical precision. She searched the hidden panel in the bookcase first. Nothing new could be found. Moving to other bookcases, she looked for similar hiding places but could find none.

Then she remembered how he'd reorganised his desk recently. Something about improving efficiency. Her husband never made a change without purpose. She examined the desk carefully, noting the new brass fittings. Her fingers found a crack that seemed too neat to be natural. When she pressed it, a small panel came loose.

A bundle of letters fell from the compartment, their seals broken. Dr Moreland Senior's elegant script filled each page. Emma's hands trembled as she began to read through them, each letter revealing more of their scheme:

...the Edinburgh position remains open. A woman of her ambitions would surely be tempted by such an opportunity...

...subtle suggestions about country practices might appeal to her charitable nature. Plant the seeds carefully, my boy...

What is the delay? Remember, women in love are remarkably tractable when guided with a firm hand...

...time grows short. If she cannot be persuaded to leave London willingly, more direct measures may become necessary...

Emma's vision blurred with unshed tears of anger as the pieces clicked into place. The sudden invitation to visit Edinburgh's medical school. His casual mentions of country practices needing physicians. Each seemingly innocent suggestion now revealed as part of a calculated plan.

“Emma? Silly me, I’ve forgotten my—” Everett’s voice from the doorway made her turn. “Are you all right? What are you—” He stopped as he saw the letter in her hands.

“How?” Her voice shook. “How could you allow your father to dictate our marriage?”

“Emma, listen—”

“No.” She slammed the letter on the desk. “You had agreed to remove me from London before we married? Was the proposal even your idea? Was any part of our relationship real?”

“Of course.” He stepped closer, but she backed away. “My father might have given an ultimatum, but what I feel for you couldn’t be truer.”

“I wish I could believe you, but I fear I might be remarkably tractable,” she spat.

"Though my father wished you far from London's shores, here you remain," he said, his voice thick with strain. "I presented choices rather than commands. Each time you declined, I honoured your wishes. Though he would have me force your hand, I waited for your heart to guide you."

"Why the deception? Why orchestrate from shadows rather than trust me with truth?"

"Would you have truly considered each opportunity had you known their source?"

When Emma remained silent, he pressed on. "You would have rejected them purely because they bore my father's mark."