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man’s trousers, leaving him in nothing save drawers and stockings. Kate could not help but eye the dusting of dark hair between the mounds of his chest muscles. It thickened as it trailed down his belly, then vanished suggestively beneath the linen of his drawers.
    Drawers that now hung almost tantalizingly low, having been dragged down by the removal of his trousers, leaving the thin, snowy fabric pulled taut—and leaving little to Kate’s imagination. She was debating the decency of attempting to pull them back up again when a knock sounded and Hetty, their kitchen maid, stuck her head in the door.
    “Beg pardon, Mrs. Peppin, but the stillroom’s locked.” The girl’s gaze swept down the man, catching on his thick, strong hipbones. “Lawks, hang my stars and garters! Dangerous ’andsome, in’t he?”
    “Mind your London tongue, Hetty; good country girls don’t make so bold.” Mrs. Peppin was already sorting through the keys at her waist. “Now do ye watch his eyes, Miss Kate,” she added as she rose. “I’ve a notion he’s stirring.”
    When they had left the room, Kate took the man’s hand again. It was warm and heavy, yet utterly lifeless. Where the devil was Dr. Fitch? She glanced at the mantel clock.
    But little more than half an hour had passed since his fall. It seemed an eternity—and a dangerously long time to remain unconscious. Despite her guilt, Kate let her gaze trail over his nearly bare body again—merely to observe the rise and fall of his chest, she assured herself.
    Kate wasn’t entirely innocent, but never had she seen a man so thoroughly undressed. What woman would not feel a certain fascination at the sight of the honed, hard muscles that layered the man’s arms and chest? And those hipbones. Yes, she could understand Hetty’s absorption, for there was something distinctly virile about them. But what? They were just bones. And yet they seemed to suggest something . . .
    But Kate was too stupid to know what. Flicking another glance at his closed eyes, she yielded to the temptation to stroke a hand down the hard swell of his biceps; all the way down to the warm, velvet-soft skin at the crook of his elbow.
    His eyes did not move. Tentatively, she eased her palm down his belly, her hand rising and falling with the firm abdominal muscles that rolled from the bottom of his breastbone, and went . . . well, Kate was not perfectly sure where they went. Underneath the tie of those drawers, certainly . . .
    For an instant, her curious fingers hovered.
    Then good sense returned on a rush of embarrassment. Kate snatched back her hands. Good Lord. She was not a fool. She knew how men were made. How they . . . reacted . She’d had a brother. A London Season. Been held, on occasion, inappropriately close. And once— just once  . . .
    Kate drew a deep breath, and forced it from her mind. Then, desperate for something to do besides stare at the beautiful man, she leapt from her chair and seized his valise. Snapping it open, she methodically laid out the contents atop the chest.
    Immediately she began to reconsider the possibility of an army career, for this was a man who moved fast and light. Three sets of fresh linen were rolled tight together with a pair of breeches and waistcoat. A razor, but no strop. Soap in a pierced silver case—the source, she realized, of his tantalizing scent. A comb. Tooth powder and a brush. But nary a scrap, she noted abashedly, in the way of nightclothes.
    Only three things remained in the bottom of the bag. A pair of gold spectacles in a leather case, a copy of Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince , and lastly, in a blue velvet bag, a strand of pearls.
    Kate flipped open the book in faint hope of finding a name on the flyleaf. Nothing. She repacked the case, giving the soap one last sniff, then returned to her vigil. It belatedly occurred to her that what she had not found was money. Surely such a wealthy man would not travel without funds?
    It