Page 17 of The Count’s Charade

He stared at her in bewilderment, trying to work out what it was. And then her sweet smile appeared, and the question went out of his head.

“Oh, you do look better!”

Henri ran a hand over his smooth chin. “Sans doute, if I have been for so long without the shave.”

“I don’t mean that.” Again the smile, faintly rueful. “Though I will not deny it helps.” She perched on the bed. “You have more colour, Henri, and you are clearly gaining strength.”

“Then the compliment is to you.”

He reached out, but she did not lay her hand in his. Unable to reach her fingers, Henri was obliged to content himself with a light grasp of her supporting arm.

“I think you have saved my life, Grâce, and I do not think I have given my thanks for this.”

“Then don’t,” came the rough reply. “Your life is my thanks.”

There was a silence. Grace eyed the green gaze, unable to read it. It met hers unflinchingly, but there was no clue there to the thoughts behind. For her part, she felt all too conscious. Of the undeniably handsome features, unnaturally thin now, without the disguising growth of beard. Of a ridiculous sense of betrayal, for having paid lip service to the circulating rumours and kept away from her patient’s bedside. A feeling of guilt impelled her to speak of it.

“I have neglected you a little, Henri. There has been much to do, and — and you have been recovering so well.”

She expected denial, but it did not come. His fingers left her arm, but Grace yet felt their imprint. His gaze moved away from her face.

“I have brought much work upon you, I think.”

Grace shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, but don’t mind it. Besides, it is my own work I have been doing.”

He looked at her again. “It is work for money?”

She made pretence of smoothing her blue petticoats. The dimity gown was once more fit to be worn owing to Jemima’s ministrations. “Why, yes. I have a little money of my own, only I have found it possible to supplement it a little. I write — oh, all manner of things. Letters mostly. But there are treatises for the schoolmaster, for example, and notices for the parish, that sort of thing.”

Henri wondered how it came about that a young woman of obvious gentility was reduced to such a pass in this England, where those of good birth had not been hounded from their homes, stripped of their possessions, and slaughtered wholesale. It was none of his affair, except that it made him reluctant to burden her with his presence. Which led him to a pertinent question.

“Do you know where are my clothes, Mademoiselle Grâce?”

She was unreasonably hurt at his resumption of formal address. She gestured across the bed. “They have been cleaned, and are folded there on the chest, ready for you when you should be well enough to get up.”

Henri looked to the right, and saw the pile of clothing he had earlier noted without taking in the contents. Now he recognised the dark folds that must be his coat and breeches, and the white linen shirt between. He could see the tops of his boots, which must be resting on the floor. Only his greatcoat was missing. Grace divined his thought.

“Jemima is still dealing with your greatcoat. It has dried, but it is stiff with mud and debris, and she is doing what she may to clean it. Though I fear it will never be as good again without thorough washing.”

“It makes no matter. It will serve.”

“Yes, but it won’t. It will be excessively uncomfortable to wear, and it will supply you with scant warmth.” She eyed him narrowly. “From the look of it, one would suppose it had been rolled in the mud.”

Henri was silent. Aware that Grace was watching him with question in her face, he sought in his mind for a diversion. The last thing he wanted was to burden her with knowledge that must endanger her too.

“My boots, they are also in this condition, en effet?”

“No, for Reuben cleaned off the mud and polished them when they were quite dry. I think you will find them little the worse.”

He could not forbear a mischievous look. “A mercy, that. Discomfort to the feet, it is worse than to the body, no?”

Grace did not answer. She was fidgeting with her fingers, not looking at him. When she did, she was wearing a serious look. Henri felt instantly wary. And with reason, as it turned out.

“What happened that night, Henri?”

He hesitated. “You are asking how it is that I am shot?”

“I am not asking how you come to be lying in that bed!”