“Perhaps not, but it shows them respect, and it comforts the living.” Which he already knew, or he would not have risked his own health to attend.
“He was an utter stranger. The entire debacle was complete happenstance—matter of timing. He died, I didn’t.” He said it flatly, matter-of-factly.
But a shiver touched her deep inside. “I see.”
His hooded gaze said she could not possibly see. And his attention returned to the window.
The man seated across from her was not the man she’d met yesterday in his bedchamber, surrounded by highflyers.
“How are your injuries?” she asked.
“A man is dead, Mr. Germain. My injuries are nothing next to that.”
“They will be if they fester and leave you dead, as well.”
“Perhaps that would only be perverse justice.”
It took a moment to credit his words. “Forgive me,” she ventured slowly. “Of course your own death would put everything to rights.”
“Mock me again,” he said sharply, looking at her once more, “and you’ll return to Lady Pennington minus your wages.”
The coach hit an especially deep pothole, and he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. For a moment she could almost imagine she felt his pain herself.
“Is there anything I can do that will help?” she said, more gently than she might have.
Those dark eyes opened, fixing on her with a shadow of pain that no compress could touch. “Are there any medicaments you can prescribe that will undo the past, Mr. Germain?”
* * *
IF THERE WERE any such medicaments, she would gladly take them herself.
After they returned to the house, Millie applied fresh dressings and compresses to his wounds and gave him a concoction to drink, and then there was nothing left to do for him except leave him to rest.
Downstairs in the library, she scoured the shelves for anything medical, and finally found a French volume about the nervous system that had been published in the past century, tucked in a row of books wedged between bookends formed like a woman’s bottom and thighs.
She sighed and slipped the volume from the shelf. It was better than nothing.
For a moment she stared at those bookends, thinking of the man who owned them. If he’d been contemplating pleasures of the flesh this afternoon, he’d given no hint of it.
All around, the ornate library testified to his decadent mode of living. Here, as in the salon where she’d waited yesterday, the ceilings boasted vast paintings of colorful and illicit love affairs, edged by intricate plasterwork decorated with gold.
The furnishings were lush, befitting his rank, yet scattered about the room in an almost careless manner that seemed to perfectly reflect the man himself.
And yet...
Was it possible the accident truly had affected him? Could this afternoon have marked the first inkling of changes to come?
Her gaze landed on a Grecian plaque depicting a variety of ancient sex acts. Of course not, Millicent. A man like that doesn’t change.
And yet, she couldn’t shake the memory of his demeanor in the coach—his troubled eyes, his silence, as if perhaps he truly was grieving the death of a stranger.
There was no knowing, so she ordered tea, went upstairs and locked herself away in her dressing room to study until he awoke and required her attention again.
Within two hours’ time, she began to hear noise through the wall. Five minutes more, ten, fifteen, and the noise and laughter coming from His Grace’s suite of rooms had grown to a crescendo.
She stared at the bookcase. He had company again? So much for the inkling of changes to come.
She continued trying to read, but concentration became impossible. Plugging her ears only proved distracting. She caught herself clenching her teeth and finally stood up, glaring at the bookcase.
What she wouldn’t give to march in there and evict the entire lot at pistol point.
Apparently all that business in the carriage this afternoon was nothing more than self-pity. And to think she’d begun to feel sympathy for him. Well, the sooner that debauched devil of a man recovered from his injuries, the better.
But not too soon. She needed all the money she could get from him.
A volley of laughter battered the wall.
She narrowed her eyes at the bookcase. Perhaps she would go over there. Make a big fuss about his health—more of a fuss than was strictly necessary—and if nothing else, give herself the satisfaction of interfering with his pleasure-seeking.
She grabbed her medical bag and went to her door, only to hear a knock. She opened it to find Sacks—
“His Grace is asking for you, Mr. Germain.”
—summoning her.
“Now? Surely he can’t be asking for medical attention.”
Sacks grinned. “I believe it’s more of an invitation, you fortunate cur.”
“An invitation.” That was a different situation entirely.
“Play your cards right, and you’ll be readying for bed with company.”
An invitation. She forced her lips into what she hoped was dry recognition of the possibilities. “You have a point.”
“That’s the spirit.” Sacks laughed. “You’ll learn the way of things ’round here.”
Oh, the way of things around here was already perfectly clear. And suddenly she was angry—furious that he could pretend such distress and then, a few short hours later, act as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Invitation or no, she kept a firm grip on her medical bag and walked down the corridor and into the duke’s apartment.
And there he was, on a sofa in his dressing room with a courtesan on either side of him, the afternoon’s burial apparently forgotten.
“Ah, here is my new medic now,” he announced when he saw her. The quality of his voice told her he was feeling his liquor—and the tilt of his smile told her he wasn’t thinking of any widow and children now. The woman to his right wore an elaborate blue gown cut so that it concealed...very little. The duke had his arm around her, laughing, drinking deeply from a glass in his other hand.
Almost immediately a young Parisienne appeared at Millie’s side. “Bonsoir,” she said, taking Millie’s arm with one hand and resting her other palm flat against Millie’s chest, smoothing it a little across Millie’s lapel—dangerously close to a place Millie did not want her to touch for any number of reasons, the least of which being that the binding around her breasts was not completely effective, and she relied on the drape of her clothing to conceal what the binding could not.
Thank God her own breasts were not as generous as this woman’s, or all would be revealed regardless of disguise.
“Bonsoir,” Millie murmured, removing the woman’s hand, too aware that she had the duke’s full attention.
“Bring Mr. Germain a drink,” the duke said, drawing lazy circles near the top of his companion’s breasts.
The tormented man in the carriage was gone.
“No, thank you,” Millie said firmly, approaching the sofa where he sat, lowering her voice. “I’ve only come to remind Your Grace that all this activity may not be wise.”
“When did wisdom ever lead