A Lady's Secret Weapon Page 0,1

her wrist. “How long was I out?”

“All of a day and most of a night.”

“So long?”

“The apothecary gave you something to help you rest.”

A long pause. “I don’t remember.”

“You were fighting a fever.” Sydney pressed her palm to his forehead. “Much better now.”

“I have to get out of here. My sister—” He sent her a wary glance. “She’ll be worried.”

“You mustn’t move for a few more days.” She smoothed her hand over her rough, threadbare skirts. “If you’d like to give me her address, I’ll have a note sent around.”

An emotion Sydney didn’t understand hardened his jaw a moment before he shifted his attention away.

She bent to collect the tray but was unable to balance it with one hand. Pausing, she slanted a meaningful glance at her wrist.

He opened his fingers.

“Thank you.” When she reached for the tray again, his hand moved to her leg. She whipped her head around to peer at him, jarring a lock of hair free. “Kindly remove your hand, m’lord.”

His lips quirked into a spare smile. “I’m hardly in a position to ravish you.”

Sydney could barely think above the hammering of her heart. The heat from his palm penetrated the rough layers of her skirts, directing her attention to that small four-inch-by-four-inch area. Setting her jaw, she lifted the tray to her lap and tucked the loose skein of hair behind her ear. Then she laid the icy compress across his eyes.

He sucked in a startled breath. “Perhaps a little warning next time,” he said through gritted teeth.

“The same could be said to you, sir.” She opened a small bottle and tapped several drops of the reddish-brown liquid in the glass. She swirled the water around before removing the compress from his eyes. “Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Water laced with laudanum.”

His lips firmed into a thin line before raising the shaking drink to his lips. Liquid splashed over the rim. “Damn me!”

“Here, m’lord.” She wrapped her hands around his, steadying the glass. “All of it,” she commanded when he tried to stop halfway.

When he finished, he shoved the glass away, scrunching his face at the bitter taste. “Next time, dribble your poison into some brandy. Might be a little more palatable that way.”

Ignoring his surly remark, she retrieved a bowl of broth and raised a brimming spoonful to his mouth.

“You’re not feeding me like a greenling cub.”

She returned the spoon to the bowl. “Then you’ll go hungry.”

“How do you figure, Miss—?” When she did not fill in the blank, he continued, “I’ve been feeding myself for a rather long time.”

“Not with those trembling hands.” She ventured another spoonful up to his lips. He waited a belligerent three seconds before opening his mouth.

Relief spread through Sydney. She didn’t know what she would have done if he’d refused the beef tea. For some men, pride forced them into making poor decisions that had terrible consequences. She was glad Ethan deBeau was not one of them.

Her relief quickly faded into agitation. She could feel the intensity of his stare all the way to her bones. An insistent quiver started at the base of her spine and worked its way up. The darkened chamber and his swollen eyes would limit his visibility. She knew this, believed it. But she could not shake her sudden, desperate sense of urgency.

“Where’s the cloaked chap that dragged my carcass in here?” Fatigue laced his words.

“I couldn’t say, m’lord.”

“I owe him my thanks.”

She quickened her pace, refusing any further attempts at conversation. The less he knew, the less likely their paths would ever cross again.

“Rest your head on the pillow again, please.”

“You’re leaving.” His voice was hollow, resigned.

Empathy gripped her heart. She glanced around the desolate chamber, hating that she had to keep him here. “Would you like a candle? A book? Perhaps another blanket?”

He grasped the ice-filled linen and placed it over his eyes. “No.”

Dismissed.

Sydney gathered everything onto her tray and made her way to the door. An odd reluctance to leave him held her immobile. She chanced a glance over her shoulder at the same time he delivered a low, unmistakable warning.

“I won’t be this helpless forever, little maid.”

One

London, 1804

Ethan deBeau, Viscount Danforth, hated being a drunkard.

The occupation enjoyed none of the creature comforts to which he was accustomed. Indeed, for the past hour, he had been forced to lounge on the hard ground, propped against a gnarled tree, in too-tight clothes that reeked of unwashed flesh and stale liquor. And if that weren’t enough, his surveillance position was directly above a rather