He opened his eyes, and though the color hadn’t changed from ordinary brown, they were somehow more dear to her now.
“Who was that man?” she asked. “Why did he attack you?”
He shook his head and closed his eyes again. If he was feigning sleep, he was better than many actors Lily had known.
She blew out a frustrated breath and went around to the foot of the bed. His gaiters and shoes were quite muddy and she wrinkled her nose in disgust, but got gamely to work. She unlaced his gaiters and then unbuckled his shoes, marveling at their size before setting them neatly beneath the bed. Then she found another blanket and pulled it over his upper half, for the one on the bed didn’t come close to his shoulders.
With a last look, Lily shut the bedroom door and went out into the main room.
Maude and Indio were by the hearth as Maude supervised the boy in stirring something in a bubbling pot.
She cast a look over her shoulder at Lily’s entrance. “There’s tea on the table, hinney. Take a seat and have a cup, but first you’ll want to scrub your hands. Go on, then.”
Lily nodded wearily and crossed to the outside door. It was oddly comforting to have Maude instructing her as the older woman had when she was a little girl. As Lily herself did now with Indio.
Outside, the sky had begun to gray and Lily blinked at the passage of time. She’d been so fearful for Indio, then so concerned about tending to Caliban, that she hadn’t noticed.
She went to the barrel of water they kept beside the door, removing the wooden cover and dipping out some water with which to scrub the blood and mud from her hands. She watched the pinkish water run into the dirt at her feet, making little runnels, and remembered another time she’d scrubbed blood from her hands. Kitty’s dear face had been so swollen she couldn’t open her eyes, her mouth turned into an obscene, bloodied mass.
All because of a big, violent man.
Lily watched the last of the water run off and recalled Maude’s words—Remember Kitty—and wondered if she was making a very foolish—and perhaps fatal—mistake.
Chapter Seven
o glared at him. How did you find me?
“I followed your sister,” Trevillion said drily. “Her Grace is very discreet, very circumspect, but I noticed that she made regular errands. None at Wakefield House knew—or at least would admit to knowing—where she was going. I decided to follow her secretly, though it was some time before my employment would allow the opportunity. Today is my day off.”
Apollo raised his eyebrows. The former dragoon knew an awful lot about Wakefield House and its inhabitants. He wrote hastily, How are you employed?
“I guard Lady Phoebe,” the other man said simply.
He bent and, one at a time, picked up his pistols and placed them once more in the holsters on his chest. If his bearing weren’t so military, he’d look like a pirate, Apollo thought in some amusement.
“Good day, my lord.” Trevillion nodded his head. “Please do heed my warning. Should the King’s men find you before I can prove your innocence, I think you know well what would happen.”
He did: death. Or worse, Bedlam.
Apollo nodded stiffly in return.
He watched Trevillion make his way slowly down the path toward the Thames and then picked up his satchel, stowed his notebook, and turned in the opposite direction.
He was feeling light-headed now with an unpleasant tinge of nausea, no doubt the result of his head wound, but he simply couldn’t wait to discover if Miss Stump was all right.
Apollo picked up his pace, breaking into a jog along the path, trying to ignore how his movements worsened his headache. She’d looked at him with such wonder before, as if he might be something special, almost lovely. No one had ever looked at him in such a way, especially no woman.
When he burst into the theater at last, the first thing he saw was Miss Stump and the maid, Maude, bent over Indio. The boy was eating a biscuit smeared liberally with jam and seemed quite all right.
The second thing he saw was Miss Stump’s look as she straightened and turned to him.
Stark fear.
CALIBAN CAME CRASHING through the theater door and Lily thought, Thank God—for he was at least alive—followed very quickly by Dear God, for his face was streaked with gore and his head was wrapped in a bloody rag. Also, and this was of course not nearly as important as the fact that he was hurt, he’d somehow lost his shirt again, and his bare, muscled chest was rather distracting.
“Remember Kitty,” Maude hissed like some dolorous chorus at her shoulder, and Lily felt a very strong urge to slap her beloved nurse.
“Heat some water,” she snapped instead to the older woman.