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She’d at first frozen into an ice statue, then she took a swing and slapped his cheek so hard that his ears rang long after. Then she’d run out of the room, sobbing.

Wonderful. She’d clearly misunderstood. Now she thought he’d tried to assault her, when all he’d tried to do was to help her.

She’d accidentally locked him in, though later he conjectured that must have been intentional, so he’d whiled away his time chasing the jackdaws out of the chimney. They’d made themselves a merry nest in there and he wondered that no one had noticed, for surely the chimney must have smoked abominably.

That was when the girl appeared, and they’d had one of the most charming conversations he’d ever had. He couldn’t remember when he last felt so alive and so amused by a person. She seemed so earnest, so sincere.

The way she pushed up her spectacles with her finger, the way she looked right over the rim to chastise him, the prim way she folded her hands in front of her.

He was entranced.

But!

It was, of course, entirely impossible that he felt any kind of sentiment towards her. He had endured a strenuous journey, and he was tired, weary, and hungry. Maybe he was falling ill.

His humours were imbalanced. Yes, that must be it. Though having one’s knees turn to jelly when one looked into the large, limpid eyes of a slip of a girl as a symptom of imbalanced humours was new to him indeed. He scratched his neck. He would have to investigate the phenomenon further when he was feeling less fatigued.

Then there was the thing with Phoebe. He’d known immediately the measles was a fib. It wasn’t the first time Phoebe had feigned an illness, either. Back then, her goal had been the opposite. They’d spent the last Christmas holidays together, and the girl had lied through her teeth to avoid being sent back to the school. He believed they’d run through the entire gamut of infectious diseases already, including the bubonic plague and typhus. For the former, she’d attached boils made of wax to her skin, which she’d painted black, and for the latter, she’d painted her entire face with blue ink. Compared to that, the measles was a relatively unoriginal idea, he thought. He wondered whether she’d used her watercolours for the dots. They’d rubbed off fairly easily on his fingers.

Then Phoebe had come up with this utterly fantastic, utterly wonderful idea that nearly took his breath away. She wanted the fairy creature to come with them.

In his entire life, he’d never wanted something as much as this.

He held his breath, as she wrapped her arms about her, biting her lips, shaking her head, coming up with all sorts of excuses.

That was when he realised he had to make an irresistible offer. Something that she simply could not say no to. So, he’d offered her a salary of an amount that was astronomical. Her violet-blue eyes had gone so wide, the whites of her eyes shone. Her rosy lips parted in astonishment.

And then, she’d said yes.

The relief and joy that flooded through his veins, more potent than the strongest Scotch, made him realise with a sinking feeling that he hadn’t imagined things in the least.

He must either be truly falling ill, or he was turning stark, raving mad, indeed.

May the heavens help him.

Chapter 4

Phoebe had hoodwinked her quite thoroughly.

Sacrebleu! Quelle petite peste. That girl was a thoroughly spoiled brat who lied through her teeth in such a convincing manner that Anna had bought into her tall tales without questioning her.

For if St John was mad, then she was Marie Antoinette.

That much was clear to her.

Not only that, but he clearly doted on his young ward.

As she did on him.

So why had Phoebe made such a scene earlier, proclaiming she feared her guardian and refusing to go with him? All those stories she’d told, surely, they were false? Why would she do this? Had she done so out of boredom? Was there malicious intent behind her lies? Or was there a sliver of truth underlying this after all, and she did fear her uncle?

The scales had fallen from Anna’s eyes the moment she’d seen the fond smile on his lips as he stood by the bed, looking down at the measles-spotted girl.

That was when she realised St John was a doctor, and an extraordinarily astute one at that.

Not because he correctly diagnosed the faux measles; any child would have seen those spots originated in Miss Grace’s pot of rouge. But because he had, within minutes, seen the blisters on her hands and offered a salve; he had noticed something amiss on Miss Grace’s neck and attempted a cure, albeit a misunderstood one. It was rare that people were as perceptive as that and promptly offered a remedy for the problems they perceived.

This St John appeared to be an exceptional man, indeed.