Felicity smiled. “I’m glad he’s better.”
“I am, too. Thank you, by the way. You played an integral role in his healing, even if your true identity was concealed. You played the part well.”
“My mother is our village midwife and healer, though we had a doctor who made monthly visits. I was trained by my mother to tend wounds and illness from a young age.”
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“A small village named Winter’s Well. My father is the vicar.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Brandon,” Lady Amelia said softly. “I know you have a good reason to hide. I don’t know that exact reason, but we will protect you. Go rest now.”
Felicity gave her a tired smile. “Goodnight.”
She followed Matilda upstairs, who recognized her and was clearly bubbling with questions by her excited glances but refrained from asking to Felicity’s relief. In her room, a guest room nicer than any room she’d ever been in, Felicity sat on the edge of the immaculate and comfy bed while Matilda pointed out the amenities like fresh water, the chamber pot, writing desk, where her clothing would reside and how to ring for her. Felicity refused help to change, and once Matilda had gone, she washed and dressed in her nightgown. A tray was delivered to her room, a light supper of soup and warm bread. Felicity ate swiftly, her eyes heavy and her feet sore. Other parts were sore, too, but they only reminded her of Tristan and how much she wished he were here.
How swiftly her world had changed. She’d gone from sheltered spinster to secret guest of the Lyon’s Den, then to a nurse, and now this. She wasn’t sure who or what she was anymore. The world keptmoving, the days flipping like pages, and somehow she’d come out on the other side of a nightmare she thought might never end. Felicity turned down the lamps in the room until they winked out, leaving the last candle by the bedside lit.
Something rattled against the glass on her window and Felicity turned in surprise. Was that rain?
Tap, tap.
A bird?
Felicity walked slowly to the window, pushing back the cream curtain. She was on the third floor. She saw nothing but darkness. Drops of rain clung to the glass and distorted the view beyond, but even so it was pitch black.
A small pebble struck the glass, and she leaped back. Shaking her head, she approached the window and looked down. Tristan stood in a small vegetable garden, miming actions she couldn’t understand. He kept flinging out his arm and then clutching his chest. Laughter bubbled in her chest and Felicity opened the window.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He shook his head and then, while she watched in horror, he started to climb.
Felicity covered her eyes, peeking at every scuff and grunt. She stepped back as he reached the window ledge and pulled himself in with catlike agility.
“You’re mad!”
“I’m your Romeo,” he said in return, panting. “Didn’t you see? I couldn’t yell like that blasted fool, Sir Elliot. Anyway, to be honest, I don’t remember reading Shakespeare at all.”
Felicity just shook her head at him, scared of the way her heart clamored for him and too tired and weary to scold him for this ridiculous stunt.
He approached her slowly. “I couldn’t stay away. Do you want me to go?”
She shook her head.
“Good. I wasn’t going to. Look at his room!” He turned toward the bed, and his shoulders slumped. “Now that’s a proper bed. I bet it’s soft.”
“It is.”
He started to remove his jacket.
“Tristan, you can’t stay.”
He smirked as he strode to the door and turned the lock. Then he continued to strip his clothing until he was left in only his breeches.
“My room is miserable now that the fire has died down. I could catch my death.” He pulled back the coverlet, whistling as he ran a hand over the crisp white sheet.
“Not silk, but just as soft.” He patted it. “Come to bed, Flick. You look dead on your feet, but still lovely.”
Felicity shuffled closer. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
