“What time is it?” The water felt good in Jeanette’s mouth, though Ann permitted her only a few sips.
“Going on eight in the evening. Mr. Dorning sent a note to Lord Tavistock not to wait supper on you. You will feel much better by tomorrow morning.”
This woman had an air of competence, suggesting she was no maid. A housekeeper perhaps?
“I am the undercook at the Coventry,” she said. “Sycamore Dorning is my employer and my frequent cross to bear. He intrudes into the kitchen, claiming he is trying to help. Monsieur Delacourt takes a dim view of infidels who attempt to offer aid to his culinary art. Men must have their little dramas.”
“Mr. Dorning brought me to his home.”
Ann set the water glass on the bedside table and helped Jeanette sit up. “Mr. Dorning brought you here, refused to leave your side even when the physician made his examination of you, tended to you until I reminded him that his club does not run itself, and will doubtless be back at regular intervals, once again claiming he is trying to help.”
Even changing positions caused a crescendo in the throbbing at Jeanette’s temples. She nonetheless made the effort, hounded by a nagging sense that a puzzle needed urgently to be solved.
“Mr. Dorning did help.” Jeanette had mortifying memories of Sycamore assisting her to her feet after she’d cast up her accounts into the grass, carrying her up a flight of steps, and summoning a physician.
“I am wearing one of his shirts, am I not?”
Ann passed her the water glass. “Your clothing needed the attention of the laundress, though your things are dry now. Mr. Dorning will doubtless object to you going anywhere for at least the next year.”
The water was an exquisite pleasure. Jeanette permitted herself three small sips. “Is Sycamore—Mr. Dorning—well?”
“As obnoxiously hale as ever. He suspects you ate some bad mushrooms at breakfast. Lord Fairly and I concur with that theory.”
“I barely had any breakfast.” A few bites of omelet, because she had been eager to leave the house on Sycamore’s arm. “Is Fairly the physician?” A soft-spoken man with a light, competent touch.
“He is, and he came quickly. Mr. Dorning was quite insistent.”
“He often is.” But Sycamore hadn’t insisted on throwing knives, hadn’t insisted on tarrying out in Surrey.
“As is Monsieur Delacourt, and there I am, surrounded by open flames, sharp objects, and stubborn fellows. The life of an undercook is never easy. I would put Sir Orion in the same category of stubbornness, but he at least keeps his mouth shut.”
Unease that had nothing to do with bad mushrooms joined Jeanette’s general malaise. She took one more sip of water and set the glass on the bedside table.
“Sir Orion was here?”
“Pacing the corridor like a man awaiting judgment. Mr. Dorning sent for him as well. Do you think you could keep dry toast down?”
“Must I?”
“Your body needs nourishment, fluids, and rest, but of the three, nourishment is the least pressing. Many a child goes all day without eating in this great metropolis.”
“Is Sir Orion still in the corridor?”
Ann busied herself refolding the quilt draped across the foot of the bed. “Lord Fairly assured your brother that the worst was behind you, and Sir Orion decamped amid many threats to Mr. Dorning’s wellbeing if anything more should happen to you.”
“A worried man is not at his best.” Though Sycamore had been the soul of calm all the way back from Richmond. Jeanette recalled that much and had vague memories of him easing her out of her clothing. He’d jollied her along, like a nanny with a fractious toddler, and roused the watch all without revealing his worry to her.
The beatings were nothing compared to the work it took to hide their effects from my family. When had he said that?
“I should get dressed,” Jeanette said.
“You should rest.” Ann regarded her with the sort of dispassion Jeanette associated with artists and scientists. “But stubbornness apparently runs in your family. You will need it, if my reading of Mr. Dorning’s intentions is accurate. I must look in on the kitchen. I have had your clothes brought up, but you are not to get out of that bed without somebody to assist you. Lightheadedness can follow a bout of food poisoning.”
Ann set the water pitcher on the bedside table, gave Jeanette a final perusal, and opened the door.
Sycamore stood on the other side, his expression as serious as Jeanette had ever seen it.
“You are awake,” he said, sidling past Ann. “Ann, Monsieur is threatening to give notice if you don’t return to your post. I was about to sack him to stop his whining. In my present mood, that is not an idle threat.”
“Neither is Monsieur’s threat idle.” Ann sent Jeanette a you-see-what-I-have-to-contend-with smile, a little tired, a little resigned. “My lady, you should know that your brother was very worried about you. I heard him praying, importuning the Almighty to spare you, in French no less. I was”—she frowned at Sycamore—“touched.”
She sketched a curtsey and left, pulling the door closed in her wake.
Sycamore took the place on the bed at Jeanette’s hip. “You are still pale. How do you feel?”
“Like I have been trampled by a coach and four. Even my eyes ache.”
“You shed many tears, which is an effect of the poison. You might also recall sweating, salivating, and panting as well as loose bowels and stomach upheaval. Your head doubtless feels as if you consumed half a barrel of bad ale.”
“I would rather not recall any of it,” Jeanette said, though Sycamore’s words provoked nasty memories. “You saw all of that?”
Sycamore wore formal evening attire. That contrast, between the symptoms he recited and the elegance of his dress, reminded Jeanette of her first impression of him. Sycamore Dorning had depths. He had perspectives and experiences that made him as competent at the fast-paced game of hazard as he was at patiently coaxing confidences from a dowager duchess.
He
