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daresay he’ll wake soon.”
    Adrian looked at the chair Agnes had vacated. “I’ll stay and watch him for a while.”
    Abby glanced at him, then at the doorway from where Agnes humphed disapprovingly. She looked back. “If you like.”
    She laid her hand on his arm for an instant, then collected Agnes and took her downstairs. After a moment of staring at Bolt’s sleeping face, Adrian sat down, and waited.
    Eventually Bolt awoke. He was weak and croaky, but recognized Adrian immediately. After settling him, Adrian hurried downstairs in search of the weak tea that was all the breakfast Bolt wanted. It was Abby Adrian wanted. Finding Agnes in the kitchen, he asked for the tea, then ran Abby to earth in the parlor. She was sitting with Esme; Adrian acknowledged the introduction—Esme stared at him wide-eyed as he drew Abby away.
    “Bolt has a tendency to develop bad coughs. He sounds”—he gestured vaguely—“not well.”
    Abby threw him an elementally feminine look. “I’ll come upstairs and see.”
    It took Bolt a moment to place her, then he blushed. “Ain’t right you bothering yerself after me, ma’am.”
    “Nonsense, Bolt. Your master’s worried about you—naturally, we need to make sure you’ll be well. Now—open up and let me see.”

    Bolt threw a helpless glance at Adrian; blocking the doorway, he met it impassively. After examining Bolt’s throat, Abby checked his forehead, then tucked him back up. “Agnes will bring your tea in a moment. I’m going to brew you a tisane to sip through the morning, then we’ll see how you’re feeling this afternoon.”
    She left the room; Adrian followed on her heels. He was worried about Bolt; thankfully, Abby seemed to understand, both that and his feeling of helplessness—she bore his presence without complaint as she gathered the herbs for the tisane and set it to brew. Indeed, she set him to gathering this and that, reaching down jars and lighting the small lamp in her still room.
    Throughout the day, he hovered—about Bolt until Abby dragged him away, then about her as she sat reading in the parlor. He couldn’t sit and read—he paced, restless as a caged leopard. The snow had returned, too heavy to risk an expedition to the curricle. There was nothing he could do, nothing to be done. Abby seemed oblivious of his prowling; Esme was at first wary, but when he forbore to bite, as the afternoon wore on, she seemed increasingly amused. Adrian pretended not to notice.
    Bolt did develop a cough, but thanks to Abby’s tisane, which she brewed and rebrewed throughout the day and insisted Bolt continue sipping, by the evening it was clear even to Adrian that Bolt was not going to succumb to his usual horrible hacking.
    When in the early evening he followed Abby into Bolt’s little room and set a laden dinner tray across his tiger’s knees, Bolt managed a smile, for Abby and forhim. Despite having actually done nothing all day, Adrian felt he’d achieved something.
    He was, therefore, in a far more mellow mood when he sat down to dinner with Abby and Esme in their tiny dining room. Esme enlivened the meal with questions on his London life, which he endeavored to answer truthfully but discreetly. While he struggled with a query that none too subtly alluded to his reputation, he caught Abby’s eye. She quickly looked away. If she’d been amused, he wouldn’t have dwelled on the incident, but it hadn’t been amusement he’d glimpsed in her eyes.
    Denying all interest in any decanter, he followed the two ladies to the parlor.
    Abby wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not when Esme’s attention abruptly shifted, as it often did. Showing no more interest in Adrian, her aunt settled in her chair by the fire and picked up her crochet. Abby hesitated, then sat on the small sofa opposite Esme’s chair. Adrian came to stand by the hearth. One arm resting along the mantelpiece, he gazed down at the flames.
    Abby seized the moment and gazed at him, at the sharp