“Didn’t you send her a note?”

“I did,” she said. “I told her you were ill, but she wrote back and said she would stop by in the morning to offer her assistance. What time is it? Do you have a clock? Of course you have a clock.” She turned frantically to the small mantel clock over the fireplace.

It had been John’s room; it still was John’s room, in so many ways. Of course she’d know where the clock was.

“It’s only eight,” she said with a relieved sigh. “Mother never rises before nine unless there is an emergency, and hopefully she won’t count this as one. I tried not to sound too panicked in my note.”

Knowing Francesca, it would have been worded with all the coolheaded calmness she was known for. Michael smiled. She’d probably lied and said she’d hired a nurse.

“There’s no need to panic,” he said.

She turned to him with agitated eyes. “You said you didn’t want anyone to know you had malaria.”

His lips parted. He had never dreamed that she would hold his wishes quite so close to her heart. “You would keep this from your mother?” he asked softly.

“Of course. It is your decision to tell her, not mine.”

It was really quite touching, rather tender even-

“I think you’re insane,” she added sharply.

Well, maybe tender wasn’t quite the right word.

“But I will honor your wishes.” She planted her hands on her hips and regarded him with what could only be described as vexation. “How could you even think I would do otherwise?”

“I have no idea,” he murmured.

“Really, Michael,” she grumbled. “I do not know what is wrong with you.”

“Swampy air?” he tried to joke.

She shot him A Look. Capitalized.

“I’m going back to my mother’s,” she said, pulling on her short gray boots. “If I don’t, you can be sure she will show up here with the entire faculty of the Royal College of Physicians in tow.”

He lifted a brow. “Is that what she did whenever you took ill?”

She let out a little sound that was half snort, half grunt, and all irritation. “I will be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”

He lifted his hands, gesturing somewhat sarcastically to the sickbed.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past you,” she muttered.

“Your faith in my superhuman strength is touching.”

She paused at the door. “I swear, Michael, you make the most annoying deathly ill patient I have ever met.”

“I live to entertain you!” he called out as she was walking down the hall, and he was quite certain that if she’d had something to throw at the door, she would have done so. With great vigor.

He settled back down against his pillows and smiled. He might make an annoying patient, but she was a crotchety nurse.

Which was just fine with him.

Chapter 9

… it is possible that our letters have crossed in the mail, but it does seem more likely that you simply do not wish to correspond. I accept that and wish you well. I shan’t bother you again. I hope you know that I am listening, should you ever change your mind.

– from the Earl of Kilmartin to the Countess of Kilmartin, eight months after his arrival in India

It wasn’t easy hiding his illness. The ton didn’t present a problem; Michael simply turned down all of his invitations, and Francesca put it about that he wished to settle in at his new home before taking his place in society.

The servants were more difficult. They talked, of course, and often to servants from other households, so Francesca had had to make sure that only the most loyal retainers were privy to what went on in Michael’s sickroom. It was tricky, especially since she wasn’t even officially living at Kilmartin House, at least not until Janet and Helen arrived, which Francesca fervently hoped was soon.

But the hardest part, the people who were the most fiendishly curious and difficult to keep in the dark, had to be Francesca’s family. It had never been easy maintaining a secret within the Bridgerton household, and keeping one from the whole lot of them was, to put it simply, a bloody nightmare.

“Why do you go over there every day?” Hyacinth asked over breakfast.

“I live there,” Francesca replied, taking a bite of a muffin, which any reasonable person would have taken as a sign that she did not wish to converse.

Hyacinth, however, had never been known to be reasonable. “You live here,” she pointed out.

Francesca swallowed, then took a sip of tea, the delay intended to preserve her composed exterior. “I sleep here,” she said coolly.

“Isn’t that the definition of where you live?”

Francesca slathered more jam on her muffin. “I’m eating, Hyacinth.”

Her youngest sister shrugged. “So am I, but it doesn’t prevent me from carrying on an intelligent conversation.”

“I’m going to kill her,” Francesca said to no one in particular. Which was probably a good thing, as there was no one else present.

“Who are you talking to?” Hyacinth demanded.

“God,” Francesca said baldly. “And I do believe I have been given divine leave to murder you.”

“Hmmph,” was Hyacinth’s response. “If it was that easy, I’d have asked permission to eliminate half the ton years ago.”

Francesca decided just then that not all of Hyacinth’s statements required a rejoinder. In fact, few of them did.

“Oh, Francesca!” came Violet’s voice, thankfully interrupting the conversation. “There you are.”