Was he supposed to be grateful she was putting her life on the line in order to prove his innocence?
Well, he wasn't.
He finally found his voice. "Am I to understand you actually think it's good news that someone might be trying to kill you?"
"Yes," she said shortly.
He hadn't been expecting a different answer, but he recoiled just the same. He wasn't sure which would be worse: to have Alexandra's investigation prove he'd committed the murder himself, or to have some other murderer cut short her search by cutting short her life. Either possibility was chilling.
And that wasn't even taking Vincent into account. If this continued, people would be looking for a scapegoat. The man could be prosecuted and convicted regardless of his innocence—a Jamaican ex-slave was unlikely to find justice in this world.
But she was hurt, he reminded himself. And so he said very calmly, "You must stop." And then he remembered something that made him wonder why they were arguing about this. "You're finished now anyway, aren't you? You interviewed Lizzy, and now you're finished."
"I'm sorry," she said, and she really did look sorry again. "But Lizzy gave me another name today. I'm not going to stop until I've talked to Maude."
"Maude." A vivid picture of a sweet old lady flooded his mind. How odd. He hadn't thought of the woman in years. Not at all. It was as though she'd somehow been stripped from his memory.
"You knew her?" Alexandra asked.
"She was a kind woman. Uncle Harold's old nurse. His nanny, actually, when he was a child." For some reason, talking about her was making him feel uneasy, but he couldn't figure why. It was ridiculous, really. "She was his children's nanny after that. And when he lost heart and fell ill, she nursed him all over again."
She shifted on the bed to face him. "Why didn't you tell me about her?"
"I didn't remember her." Strangely enough, it was true. Not that he'd have assisted Alexandra's search even if he had remembered. All he wanted was for her to stop.
Maybe if he told her several hundred more times, she might start listening.
Probably not.
"Evidently nobody else remembered Maude, either," she said. "I find it very odd that she wasn't on Peggy's list."
"She was a little bird of a woman, quite elderly. I wonder if she's even still alive."
"Lizzy wondered that as well, but I'm hoping she is. As she was closest to your uncle, she's my best hope for information. Ernest and I were on our way to see her when I took my little tumble."
"It wasn't a little tumble," he snapped, forgetting to stay calm. Leave it to Alexandra to trivialize such a thing. "You could very well have broken your neck." Remembering something, he dug a small bottle out of his pocket. "I fetched this from my uncle's rooms."
"I thought you avoided going in there."
He shrugged, handing it to her. "I thought it might help you. Dull the pain and help you to sleep. It's laudanum."
"How old is this?" She popped the cork and sniffed. "There's hardly any in here."
"You'll want to take only a little, anyway. You can overdose on laudanum."
"I don't hold with taking medicine. Not unless I have to, and I've told you, I'm fine." She replaced the cork and handed back the bottle.
"Lie down at least," he said with a sigh. "Your head will feel better if you rest."
For once, she listened, which made him suspect she felt worse than she'd admit. "It's dented," she said mournfully when she was once again settled on the pillow.
"Your head?"
"My beautiful basket." She gestured to where someone had set it on a table. "It took the tumble with me."
He rose and went to examine it in the light from the window. "It's not too bad. I don't expect anyone would ever notice, although I'm certain we can have it fixed."
"No." She gave him a shaky smile. "I believe I shall think of it as a battle scar."
"I only hope your own battle scars end up being so minimal." He set down the basket. "Maybe Peggy was right. Maybe you should go home until everything here is back to normal."
"This is my home," she said quietly.
The simple statement touched him to the core. Despite all his worry, all his dread, all the anger beneath the surface of his calm, her words warmed something deep inside him.
"I'm not sleepy," she said. "I hurt, but I'm not tired."
That was why he'd brought the laudanum, but he wouldn't force it on her. He should have known she'd be too stubborn to take it.
Her family's cookbook and the blank book he'd given her were stacked together on the bedside table. "Here," he said, handing them to her. "You can copy the recipes you wanted." He shifted on his feet, and then, unable to help himself, added, "And think about whether continuing this investigation is really wise."
Her eyes flashed, as he'd known they would. "If Maude knows nothing, there will be nothing left to investigate. But I'd be a fool not to question her."
He'd known she would say that, too. "It isn't foolish to protect yourself, nor to abide by your husband's wishes."
She kept quiet for a moment, but something in her expression hardened.
"This is beautiful," she finally said conversationally, turning the blue leather book over in her hands. After another moment, she looked up at him. "But I hope you haven't been trying to buy my cooperation with these gifts, because my convictions aren't for sale."
He hadn't known she would think him so calculating. The warmth inside him went cold as he walked out the door.
FORTY-SEVEN
LEMON PUFFS
Beat the whites of four eggs till they rise to a high froth. Then add as much sugar as will make it thick; then rub it round for half an hour, put in a spoon of lemon peel gratings and two spoons of the juice. Take a sheet of paper and lay it on
