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Ms. Genevieve Delacroix. It took Lewis a few moments to place the name. He knew that he had heard it before — where, however, he could not initially recall. After a moment of furrow-browed rooting in the back of his mind, he at last found the proper identity to match to the name: the dressmaker, on the high street. Having no sister in London, he did not exactly have cause to visit a modiste, but he had heard her name passed around here and there at parties, and he was sure Morrison might have mentioned her on some occasion or another. 

So, Benedict's... intimate friend was the modiste. That explained a few things, Lewis supposed. It explained, chiefly, why she might have been mugged: he had wondered at that, as he was quite certain no noble family would allow a young woman to be alone at night and few pickpockets would target anyone with chaperones or servants in tow, but a tradeswoman might find herself running errands in all sorts of unsavoury parts of town. It explained, too, why Benedict might be keen on a medical man with discretion. The ton would no doubt be abuzz if the news leaked that a Bridgerton brother was carrying on a dalliance with the modiste. 

As Lewis himself was not the gossiping sort, at least when it came to society matters, Benedict had chosen well. Lewis was pleased to have his curiosity satisfied, for his own sake, but he would not go around spreading any rumours, nor would he pass any judgment. If Benedict wished to spend his time with a tradeswoman, so be it. At least three quarters of the men in London were having affairs of some sort or other. 

After taking another small sip of his brandy and swallowing, Lewis replied, "You need not thank me. I was glad to be of service. You and Ms. Delacroix both seemed quite shaken." 

Lewis could not stop a faint flush of embarrassment from stealing across his countenance. In truth, he had made assumptions based on Benedict's family name. He liked Anthony well enough, but the two things he knew about the Bridgerton family in general were that it boasted both considerable wealth and a plethora of siblings, and he had thought it strange enough that one man from such a family could prove to be bearable company. He had presumed that Anthony must be the odd one out. It made sense that the eldest sibling would have to be presentable and likeable, for the sake of the family's reputation; Lewis had never paused to think much about the other siblings, but he had made the unconscious assumption that they must all be just as intolerable as most of London society. 

He was pleased to find himself proven wrong. Not a sentiment he would have expressed in most situations, but in this case, he would make an exception. He was not so enamoured with the idea of being right that he would cling to a low opinion of Benedict. 

"You are kind to say so. I'm afraid that is not a sentiment that many of your peers share." Most people found a way to hastily excuse themselves from the conversation as soon as he dared to even mention the word 'dissection.' 

Lewis decided, firmly, that he liked Benedict Bridgerton. He had not liked many people to whom Connor had introduced him, especially in places like this; more often than not, they turned out to be precisely the sort of men that Benedict had just derided. Rich men seemed capable only of talking about how rich they were, which wore incredibly thin after the first fifty variations Lewis heard on the same story. No one here had anything interesting to say — they were all focused entirely on making themselves seem as impressive as possible to their peers, and their very attempts to do so made them all sound precisely as bland as everyone else. 

Benedict, however, was earnest in a way that Lewis had not expected. He found himself almost smiling. It was certainly not much of a smile by most standards, but even a hint of one was more than Lewis usually displayed. "It is I who should thank you, Mr. Bridgerton. I confess, 'refreshing' is... not what I expected this conversation to be, when Morrison first introduced us."

Lewis could not really claim to identify with much of what Benedict was saying about his own interests in art. He was certainly capable of appreciating the beauty of a fog rolling in at dawn or the swirling dust in rays of sunlight, but he had never felt the urge to try and capture that beauty with paint or charcoal. He dabbled in drawing on occasion, but that was only ever to add a sketch of some muscle or bone to his notes — he would hardly presume to call that art. 

Nevertheless, he listened politely. After the patience Benedict had shown him, that was the least Lewis could do. Clearly, art mattered a great deal to Benedict, even if he seemed rather embarrassed to speak of the hobby. Truth be told, Lewis was rather curious to see some of the man's artwork, if only to see how Benedict approached his studies of the human form. 

There again was that sheepishness. Odd, Lewis thought, in a man of Benedict's standing. It was almost... endearing, to some degree — or, at least, it made Lewis like Benedict far better than the men of a similar class who boasted of all their endeavours as though they were God's gift to mankind. There was a humbleness that Lewis respected, even if it seemed rather strange. Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, the Welshman replied, "I think you are too harsh on yourself. Believe me, Mr. Bridgerton, I would rather hear about your interest in art than about the fourth country estate a baron has purchased."

Once Lewis had gotten himself riled up, it was generally not easy to compose himself again. That was especially the case when the situation in question involved his work. This, again, was not so odd for a surgeon — some medical men had been known to fight duels over opposing scientific opinions, and the very father of modern surgery, John Hunter, was not exactly known for his calm or tact. Left to his own devices, Lewis might have gone on yelling at the closed door, accomplishing absolutely nothing except his own further embarrassment. 

The sudden sound of his name, however, was enough to draw his attention. Before he could turn around to snarl out a dismissal, Anthony Bridgerton situated himself squarely in the surgeon's view; the sheer surprise of that was enough to shut Lewis up, at least for now. 

As the surprise faded, the real world began to settle back in around Lewis. He could feel the stares on his back and hear the disapproving mutters buzzing around him, and it set in, quite suddenly, that he had just made quite the scene in the middle of a busy London street. With any luck, the majority of these people would simply go on about their day and forget about the strange, shouting Welshman within a week or two, but Anthony... 

Well, Anthony was another matter. Of all the acquaintances — friends, if he could call Anthony that — who could possibly have happened on Lewis in such an undignified state, a Bridgerton brother was among the worst. He had hoped that a connection with them might sway certain social situations in his favour, but if the Viscount thought of him as a swearing madman, that would dampen matters. The flush of anger on Lewis' cheeks had now converted thoroughly to a flush of mortification. "... Viscount." He fixed his gaze squarely on the pavement. "A walk. I— Yes." 

Lewis was not exactly a stranger to finding himself rather... unwelcome in places. From his poor dancing at balls to his taciturn nature at the gentlemen's clubs, Lewis was not the sort of man who often found himself very well-liked. In terms of social situations, that had never bothered him — he was not inclined to enjoy them in the first place, and if his demeanour caused people to give him a bit of a wide berth, that suited him just fine. Lewis, in general, did not care a whit for the world's opinion of him. 

There were times, however, when there was a bit more at stake than just the loss of an invitation to the next ball or a scathing writeup in Lady Whistledown's columns. When it came to the matter of professional concerns, Lewis' nature served him little better. At his best, he was passionate, dedicated, and a damned good operator; at his worst, he was abrasive, loud, and downright aggressive with his opinions. Among the profession itself, that was not so odd — indeed, he was far from the most tempestuous surgeon that London had seen in the past few years, let alone in the past few decades. Medical society was more of a nest of vipers than most people outside the profession might have guessed. He might not be popular with all of his peers, but given how many men had petty feuds with one another, one more brash voice hardly caused much upset. 

The issue came when he attempted to bring his more controversial opinions outside of the medical circles and into the general public. He had never quite managed to grasp the fact that most people had no wish to discuss these medical matters, and that distaste extended, unfortunately, to the officials who made the laws. He had attempted to stay perfectly polite when he first approached the House of Parliament, pamphlets in hand — but half an hour later, when he found himself escorted out the front door and told in no uncertain terms that Parliament would not be considering any proposals for an anatomy act this season, he had thoroughly lost all patience and all sense of decorum. Absolutely fuming, without the least care for who on the street might see the spectacle, he shouted at the closed door, "Well, devil fucking take the lot of you, then! The next time you require a surgeon, I hope you have no one to turn to but untrained, useless idiots!"