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too clever for me. The truth then. I intend to see you follow those orders, and after it is clear you have suffered no as yet unseen damage, I want to continue my interrogation.”
    â€œDo you intend to torture me during this interrogation?”
    â€œOf course not.” What kind of woman even asks such a question, or considers torture likely? Not a normal one, but a spy taught that it could happen.
    â€œYou are insulted. I am sorry. It is not unheard of,” she said.
    â€œYou know that, do you? Is that another memory from the past, when you were a girl, or a more recent one, from your alliance with that rabble?”
    Her expression froze. Her bright eyes turned icy. “I have no such alliance.”
    He downed the rest of his wine.
The hell you don’t
.
    I t was time to leave this place and this man.
    Oh, he would not torture her. Not in the normal ways at least. But he would be intrusive and relentless and pick away at whatever she said. She would have no relief from being careful with every word and nuance.
    Worse, he would interfere with her sorting through what today meant to her life and safety too. He would delay action when time might be critical. Right now other things needed her attention, like deciding if she needed to flee London entirely, and if so how obscure she should become.
    His questions would have to wait. With luck, she might never answer them.
    Nor would staying here be comfortable. To remain here, even if she locked herself into that chamber, would mean having to worry about him. The lack of servants made it all too intimate. Too domestic. Even this simple meal had begun making them too familiar.
    She doubted he would allow her to walk out the door. He had imprisoned her, no matter how he chose to cast it. She calculated how to escape. Despite her resolve, a feather bed beckoned. Her head hurt and her back had stiffened and that bed held appeal. She guessed tomorrow she would have trouble moving, however, and then escape would be impossible for a while. She had to leave now.
    â€œI will return to the chamber and see you in the morning,” she said. “There is still clean water from the morning there for me to use. Without a servant here, who will provide for you?”
    â€œThere are boys in the street who will bring up whatever I want in return for a coin.” He gestured at the tray and plates.
    â€œWho does for you in other ways when you have no servants with you?”
    â€œI do for myself, as most men do.”
    She angled and examined his side, from head to toe. “Today you have a bad stab wound in your side. I do not think you will enjoy removing those high boots on your own. Is it even possible in your condition?”
    He thought about that, then shrugged. “I will sleep with boots on, it appears.”
    â€œYou should have had that physician aid you while he was here. As he did with your coats and shirt.” She stood. “I will do it. It is a small payment for my life. Sit over there, on the divan and I will pull them off.”
    He began to object. She walked away before he could. “Do not argue, m’sieur. I have done this before, for my father. It is a small thing.”
    She heard him stand, then pause. She assumed that wound was taking its toll on him as the hours passed. Any movement of his torso would pull at the injury. She kept her back to him, so he could collect himself without her seeing his pain.
    He walked to the divan and lowered himself slowly, pushing aside her shawl. Expression stoic and hard, he eased back against the divan’s cushion.
    â€œI would have thought your father had a valet to remove his boots,” he said. “He was the brother of a comte, wasn’t he?”
    She managed to keep her face impassive, but inwardly she cursed herself. “And you are a viscount, but here you are without
your
valet. Such inconvenience occurred for him too at times.”
    Looking up at her with some