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to annoy her. The way he was behaving as if he owned the place. However, on her first day she didn’t want to cause a fuss. She needed this job. It paid well, extremely well paid, in fact, and the hours were flexible enough to give her time to help look after Dad. Perhaps this was the way all Harley Street patients behaved. How was she to know? Nevertheless, it was unacceptably rude of him to put her in this position. What if Dr Cavendish walked in to find she had allowed a patient to take over her desk? She couldn’t imagine him being best pleased.

      The man jumped to his feet and took the tray from her hands. ‘Please let me,’ he said, laying the tray down on the desk. He looked at the single cup and saucer and raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘What about you? Aren’t you joining me?’

      Rose forced a polite smile. ‘No, thanks.’ She slid behind her desk before he could reclaim her chair. ‘Now, what did you say your name was?’

      ‘Jonathan.’ He stretched out a hand. ‘Jonathan Cavendish.’

      ‘You’re related to Dr Cavendish?’

      The smile grew wider. ‘I am Dr Cavendish.’

      Rose was aware her mouth had fallen open. She quickly closed it.

      ‘But you’re young,’ she protested, feeling her cheeks grow warm. What an imbecilic thing to say.

      He looked puzzled. ‘Twenty-seven, since you ask. How old are you?’ He leaned towards her and lazy eyes swept over her. ‘No, don’t tell me. Twenty-five?’

      ‘Twenty-six, actually,’ Rose conceded reluctantly. He was laughing at her, making her flustered. And she didn’t do flustered. ‘My name’s Rose Taylor. The agency sent me over. To fill in until your usual receptionist returns.’

      ‘Where did you say Mrs Smythe Jones was? I’m sure she didn’t say anything about going on holiday.’

      ‘I don’t think it was a holiday.’ Didn’t this man know anything about the woman who worked for him? ‘She had an emergency to do with her sister apparently. She called the agency on Friday, to ask for a temp.’

      Jonathan frowned. ‘I knew her sister hadn’t been well. I was away this weekend, skiing. Couldn’t get a signal on my phone—you know how it is.’ He pulled his mobile out of his pocket. ‘Still no message. I’ll phone her later, after I’ve seen my patients.’ He snapped the phone shut.

      ‘Okay, so now we’ve that sorted, let’s move on. Who’s the first patient?’

      Rose was still reeling from the discovery that this man was the doctor. Where was the elderly silver-haired man of her imagination? She was rapidly trying to process this new information. But it wasn’t making any kind of sense.

      As if he’d read her mind, Jonathan said, ‘There is another Dr Cavendish, my uncle. But he retired last year. I took over the practice from him.’

      Still confused, Rose studied the list in front of her. ‘You have three patients this morning.’ Only three! And each of them had been given half-hour slots. Half-hour slots! In the practice where she normally worked, the patients were lucky to get ten minutes with the overworked and harassed medical team. Either Dr Cavendish wasn’t very good and no one wanted to come and see him, or he didn’t like to work too hard. But it was none of her business how he ran his practice. ‘And then you have a couple of home visits this afternoon. That’s all Mrs Smythe Jones has marked down for you, unless there’s another list somewhere?’ Come to think of it, perhaps that was the answer?

      She glanced around the desk. No, apart from this ornate leather-bound appointment book there was nothing else with information on it. Her eyes came to rest on the computer. That was it. There must be a computerised patient list. She stopped herself from smacking her head at her stupidity. Of course there would be a full list on the computer! The patients Mrs Smythe Jones had marked down in her neat hand must be additions.

      Rose smiled apologetically at Jonathan, who was waiting patiently for a response, and booted up the hard drive. There had to be a password here somewhere.

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she apologised as the computer hummed into life. ‘That must be the add-on list. As soon as I can get into the clinic on the computer, I’ll be able to tell you who else is down for your clinic.’

      The half-smile was back. ‘You won’t find anything on there. Mrs Smythe Jones doesn’t believe in computers, I’m afraid. She uses it for letters, but that’s it. The list you have in front of you is it.’ He stood and straightened his already immaculately tied tie. ‘Three patients sounds about right.’ He held out his hand for the book. ‘When the first patient arrives, just press this buzzer here.’ He leaned back over the desk and Rose caught the scent of expensive aftershave. He straightened and pointed to a set of oak filing cabinets. ‘Notes are in there. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Vicki, my nurse, should be in shortly—she’ll keep you right.’ Without waiting for a reply, he retreated into the consulting room and closed the door behind him.

      

      The first patient wasn’t due to arrive for another half an hour. The cleaner came in and picked up the tray from the desk.

      ‘His Lordship in, then? I’m Gladys by the way,’ she said.

      It was getting more confusing by the minute. His Lordship? Who the hell was she referring to? Did she mean Jonathan? In which case, it wasn’t a very respectable way to speak about her boss.

      Gladys chuckled. ‘You haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, dearie. Do you? His Lordship? Jonathan? The Honourable Jonathan Cavendish?’

      Oh, my word. She was working for aristocracy.

      Speechless, Rose could only indicate the closed door of the consulting room with a tip of her head.

      ‘That’s me, then, luvvie,’ Gladys was shrugging into her coat. ‘I’ll get myself away home. Nurse will be in in a minute. I’ll see you tomorrow. Ta-ra.’

      

      Rose sat at the desk, completely stupefied. When a harassed staff member from the agency had rung her late on Friday afternoon, she’d been only too glad to get a job for the next few weeks. She hadn’t stopped to ask about the practice, and even if she had wanted to, the voice on the other end of the line had made it clear she was in a rush.

      ‘It’s a minimum of four weeks, more likely five. Harley Street. Please say you can do it. They’re new clients and we really want to keep them on our books. It involves the usual medical secretary work, plus manning the reception with possibly a bit of chaperoning thrown in. It’ll be a piece of cake for someone with your experience.’

      It had sounded right up Rose’s street. Ever since Dad had had a stroke she’d known she would have to put her job in Edinburgh on hold and go and help her mother. Her parents hadn’t wanted her to come home to London, but to Rose there had been no choice. Happily the practice she worked for as a practice nurse had been sympathetic and agreed to give her five weeks’ leave, more if she needed it. The next few weeks would give her time to assess the situation at home and decide whether she should return to London permanently.

      Harley Street was a couple of tube journeys away from her parents’ house and meant an hour’s commute at either end of the day, but it was a job and Rose had snatched the opportunity with both hands. Now she was wondering if she’d done the right thing. Then again, she hadn’t much choice. There weren’t that many temping jobs and she needed the money. Whatever reservations she might have about her new boss, the job was perfect.

      She sighed and helped herself to another chocolate in the bowl on the desk. She let the rich flavours roll around her mouth. Delicious.

      The door opened and an older woman with neatly coiffed hair and a small dog tucked under her arm swept into the room. Rose glanced at her sheet. Could this be L. S. Hilton?

      ‘Such a naughty boy,’ Mrs Hilton clucked. ‘Snapping at that poor man’s ankles. If you do that again, Mummy will get really angry with you.’ Before Rose could react, she thrust

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