Her toilette quickly accomplished, she paused outside the door to the guest room, knocked, and then pressed her ear at the panel.
“Come in,” said the merchant, and he sounded remarkably clear.
She turned the handle.
“On one condition.”
She stopped.
“Mr. Duke?”
“Promise me that you do not have any oatmeal. I hate oatmeal.” His tone was conversational and there was a bantering quality to it that was new to her.
“Cross my heart and hope to die, sir,” she said.
“Then you may enter.”
The room was still gloomy, the draperies pulled, but Libby saw the merchant sitting up in bed. His face was pale and unshaven, but his eyes were open and alert.
She approached his bed, her hands behind her back. “How do you feel, Mr. Duke?” she asked cautiously.
He frowned. “Rather like someone has used my body to beat out a campfire. Not that it’s any interest of yours.”
“My, but you’re a rude one,” she declared, secretly pleased right down to her shoes that he was not shaking or crying.
“I certainly am,” he agreed, “and I’ll get a great deal more rude if you don’t bring me . . .”
He paused. Libby held her breath and crossed her fingers behind her back.
“Some tea and toast.”
Libby exhaled her lungful of air and clapped her hands. The London merchant winced and she put her hands behind her back again and started to edge out of the room.
“I’ll be only a moment, sir,” she said.
“You’ll be less time than that, Miss,” said Candlow behind her, and she turned about to see the butler in the doorway, bearing a covered tray. “I was here before you, miss.”
Candlow was dressed impeccably as usual, but there were dark smudges under his eyes and his well-lived-in face seemed to have settled further.
Libby eyed him, her hands on her hips. “I would suspect, Candlow, that you were here all night.”
“He was,” said the duke, a touch of irritation mingled with in his voice. “Is no one ever left alone in this amusing house to suffer in silence?”
Libby considered the question in some seriousness before her own good humor surfaced. “I suppose not, Mr. Duke.” She came closer and gave the merchant the full force of her smile. “Be grateful that Mama is not here. It would have been hot bricks at your feet, a poultice for your chest, and possibly a leech or two, if Joseph had been prevailed upon to visit the pond.”
The merchant shuddered in mock horror. “And chamomile tea and sal hepatica?”
Libby nodded. “You obviously have a mother, sir.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” quizzed the merchant. “Although I do not know that she would have done those things ...” His voice trailed off.
“Who, then, sir?” Libby asked.
“Oh, others,” he replied vaguely.
Her eyes wide, Libby hurried to his side. She touched his arm. “Sir, I never thought. You have a wife. Only tell me her direction and I will inform her of your accident. Candlow, why didn’t we think of that? I am distressed.”
The merchant reached over and stopped the agitated movement of her hands by grabbing one in a firm grip. “There is no one to tell, Miss Ames, no one.”
