She lifted her chin. “I have never slept so late, sir. Even before I... came here. What must you think of me!”
His gaze roved her eyes, her face, her cap. “I don’t know what to think of you.”
Did he look at her with approval or disapproval? It was difficult to tell in the dim light.
He drew himself up. “It proves nothing. How do you know he had been out all night?”
“He wears the same rumpled clothes and is in need of a shave.”
His eyes glinted. “How closely you regard him, to notice such detail.” He paused. “Still, he might have been out with friends, playing cards or some such.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Based on what?”
How awkward this was. How did one describe the subtle things—not the obvious smell of perfume, nor lip rouge on his cravat. But his warm, tousled look. His smirk of satisfaction. His lack of interest in trifling with her...
“Let us just say feminine intuition.”
He quirked a brow. “I don’t suppose your feminine intuition can conjure the name of this theoretical female friend?”
She shook her head. “No, but he comes home on foot through the side door, so she cannot live too far away. Weavering Street, I would suppose. Or Maidstone.”
He studied her. “And are you jealous of this phantom woman, whoever she is?”
“Not at all.”
His eyes narrowed. “I hope you speak the truth.”
A snort interrupted them. On the settee, Mrs. Welch smacked her lips and muttered something under her breath. The wooden frame creaked as she struggled to sit up.
Nathaniel shook his head and, with an empathetic grimace, slipped from the room. Margaret guessed he hoped to spare the woman the embarrassment of being found asleep on duty. She hesitated, surprised to realize she thought so charitably, so highly, of Nathaniel Upchurch now. Had he changed since her arrival, or had she?
“What? Who’s there?” Mrs. Welch murmured. “I was only restin’ me eyes.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Welch. It’s only me, Nora.”
“Ohhh.” The old woman exhaled in relief. “Forget the tea tray again, did you?”
Margaret smiled to herself. “That’s it. Good night.”
Hudson left early the next morning to return to London. In his absence, Nathaniel made the rounds of the estate on his own, but he did not tarry, unwilling to leave his brother for too long. Later, Nathaniel sat at the desk in the library reading correspondence and scouring newspapers for further reports on the slave revolt and its aftermath. Helen had yet to join him.
Now and again he looked across the room at his brother lying so still in the transplanted sickbed. He liked to be near Lewis. Keep him company in this way, even if Lewis was unaware of his presence. Four days and he still hadn’t wakened.
The under butler, Arnold, appeared in the doorway and coughed. “Sir, there is a Mr. Tompkins to see you. I’ve put him in the morning room.”
Tompkins? Was that not the name of the runner who had already questioned Hudson?
Nathaniel rose. “I’ll see him there.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man who stood when Nathaniel entered the morning room was short, slight, and bald. He was perhaps thirty or five and thirty, not old enough to have lost all his hair naturally. Nathaniel fleetingly wondered if he shaved his head and why he would do so. The skin of his face was smooth, his brows giving evidence of hair that would be brown, had he any to show.
“Mr. Nathaniel Upchurch, I presume.”
“Yes.”
