With a nod and an easy smile, Clarice watched him go, then turned and walked on.
The fact that Warnefleet was experienced with injuries circled in her brain. Presumably he’d sustained injuries during his years of…spying. Common sense suggested that such an occupation could be rather more dangerous than simple soldiering, and that was quite dangerous enough.
But what had Willis meant by saying Warnefleet would be in sympathy with the injured man? Warnefleet presently had no broken bones, of that she was quite sure. He—his strength—hadn’t appeared in any way impaired when he’d lifted the wrecked phaeton, or when he’d caught her.
Frowning, she reached the manor’s front porch. The front door was propped open, as it often was in fine weather; she didn’t bother knocking but went in. She found a footman at the back of the hall; he told her which room the young man had been put in.
She started up the stairs. The manor was a substantial house, solid and comfortable; she always enjoyed the brightly colored tapestries that hung on the walls beside the stairs. The same jewel tones featured in the arched, three-paneled leadlight window on the landing; the sun shone through in bright-hued beams to dapple the lovingly polished woodwork.
The banister was smooth under her palm as she gained the top step. Turning to her right, she headed down the corridor.
“If you ask me that London surgeon of yours needs a talking-to.” Mrs. Connimore’s voice floated into the corridor through the open door halfway along. “Fancy telling you it’ll all just pass with time!”
“But it will,” Warnefleet soothingly replied.
Clarice slowed.
“I assure you Pringle is an expert in such injuries.” Warnefleet sounded certain, yet patiently resigned to Connimore’s disbelief. “A few months’ rest, meaning no undue exercise, and I’ll be as right as rain. Besides, what other remedy could apply? There’s no potion to magically cure it, and considering the location, surgical intervention is hardly something I’d invite.”
Connimore’s reply was a disapproving humph. “Well, we’ll just have to ensure you don’t go exercising it unduly for the next few months.”
Clarice blinked at Connimore’s emphasis. Just what part of Warnefleet’s anatomy was injured?
“We can only hope,” Warnefleet rejoined, amusement running beneath his words.
Clarice had three older brothers, and one younger; there was something in Warnefleet’s tone that made her think…with a humph, she shook off the distracting thought, lifted her chin, and walked on.
She paused in the open doorway. Courtesy of the hall runner, neither Warnefleet nor Mrs. Connimore had heard her. Both were concentrating on the body in the bed. Warnefleet had been helping his housekeeper bathe the young man; they were engaged in pulling a clean nightshirt down over his lean frame.
“There!” Connimore straightened. She reached for the covers as Warnefleet tugged the neck of the nightshirt into place, then stood back. Connimore drew the covers up and patted them down around the young man. “Snug as a bug. Now if only he’d wake….”
The instant he shifted his concentration from the young man, Jack sensed another’s presence. No—he sensed her presence; he was not at all surprised to see Boadicea, tall and regal, commanding the doorway.
She met his eye and nodded. Mrs. Connimore noticed her and bobbed a curtsy. Boadicea smiled and inclined her head. “I met Dr. Willis. He told me the gentleman hadn’t yet regained his wits.”
Jack wondered why he hadn’t rated a smile.
“Aye, that’s right.” Connimore glanced at the bed and grimaced. “Tried everything—burnt feathers, spirits of ammonia—but he’s still deep.”
Boadicea’s gaze flicked to Jack; her next question was addressed to him and Connimore both. “Was there anything in his things to tell us who he is?”
Connimore looked to Jack; Boadicea followed suit.
“Coat by Shultz, and his boots were by Hoby.”
Boadicea frowned. “One of the ton, then.”
“It seems likely. The phaeton was from one of the better makers in Long Acre.” After a moment, Jack asked, “Still no revelation over who he might be?”
She met his eyes, then shook her head. “None.” She looked again at the young man laid out under the covers. “He’s definitely familiar. I just can’t place the resemblance.”
“Stop worrying about it.” Jack rounded the bed to stand beside her; he, too, studied the young man. Brown hair, brown brows, clean lines of forehead, cheeks, nose, and jaw; the patrician cast bore mute witness to its owner’s aristocratic antecedents. “If you stop trying to force it, the connection will come to you.”
She glanced at him briefly, then turned to Mrs. Connimore.
Jack remained, unmoving, beside her. And waited.
Boadicea proceeded as if he didn’t exist. She asked for details of Willis’s visit, and Connimore reported, as if Boadicea were a centurion and his housekeeper a trooper…except the relationship was more cordial than that. Boadicea was understanding, supportive, and encouraging as Connimore aired not just all they’d done, but her concerns over the young man’s state.