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they could go back to being comfortable.
    Nick tried to rise but his bottom seemed stuck in place in Daniel’s rickety Jacobean chair.
His
rickety Jacobean chair. Nick thought the Lindsey Street furnishings rather splendid, the result of two decades’ worth of artistic acquisition. It seemed almost criminal that Daniel had to be parted with it all, but one reaped what one sowed, and Daniel Preble had been a prodigious sower. Some dozen years older than his protégé, he’d been Nick’s guiding star the past few years as the younger man kicked around the Continent avoiding Scotland, his late sister-in-law, and his brothers. Nick had been only too happy to help his friend out. He was generous to a fault, as tonight had proved.
    Damn it all. He’d slept sitting up before, but that was not his preferred position. What he needed was a bath and brandy, and two and a half sets of stairs sets were between him and the object of his desire.
    For heaven’s sake. He’d climbed a minor Alp or two in his time. It was only carpeted stairs, not sheets of ice. Nick was fit, although he’d overestimated his martial skills tonight. With a grunt, he extricated himself from the antique chair and limped to the hallway. Something unpleasant slithered down his leg, but he resolutely ignored it and began to mount the steps.
    He reached the first story with no incident. The floor-through double parlor was dark, but Nick could see Mrs. Quinn had tidied up the remains of the party. They’d had coffee, brandy, and cigars up here, the casement window overlooking the garden open to ventilate the room. Nick felt a blast of cold night air and detected the scent of Havana’s finest. The overstuffed sofa beckoned, but he was not to be deterred.
    Perhaps he’d forgo the bath. Fall into his bed fully clothed. A trickle of blood dripped onto his lashes disabusing him of that notion. He needed plasters and carbolic before poor Mrs. Quinn quit at the sight of his bloody bedding. She was only one woman, and Sue was just a child, really.
    His sister-in-law ran an employment agency—maybe he could ask her to get a few dailies in to help out with the scut work. But then Nick remembered she was off to Southampton later today and some fellow named Oliver was in charge. He would mention his idea to Miss Lawrence if she was still speaking to him.
    Well, here he was at his open bedroom door. Not a sound came from Sunny’s room, where no doubt Miss Lawrence was lying like some shriveled martyr, missing only a spray of lilies. He stripped himself of his ruined clothes and put on his dressing gown—he did have one, contrary to Miss Lawrence’s accusation, a lovely Italian striped silk that had been a gift from Barbara at the start of their affair.
    Nick had been just a boy then, for all his posturing, but Barbara had taught him a great deal in the year he’d spent as her favorite. When he’d returned home, he’d been unbearably full of himself, fancying he was God’s gift to women. Alec’s wife Edith hadn’t thought much of that claim—he’d been entirely unable to charm her, not that he had anything other than brotherly attention for her. It hadn’t taken long before he was driven out of Scotland and back into Barbara’s arms. The self-confidence she’d fostered influenced his work, and suddenly the world wanted a Nicholas Raeburn to hang on its drawing room wall.
    He owed Barbara everything, not the least of which was the precious trust she’d given him to raise her daughter. Nick would have to be more sensible in the future, not risk his skin interfering where he clearly wasn’t wanted. He couldn’t imagine raising a hand to a woman, no matter how provoking she might be, but obviously Phil Cross felt differently and Maisie didn’t seem to mind.
    He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. No wonder Miss Lawrence had found his countenance objectionable.