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His left eyebrow was under assault again, oozing blood from a dent in his forehead. The area surrounding it was a virulent plum already, but his nose was where it was meant to be and he still had his teeth, so that was something.
    His thigh throbbed and he examined the ragged wound. It was deep, and who knew what filth was on Cross’s blade? Yes, Nick would scrub himself silly and hope for no infection.
    He was very weary now, but the bath was only a few steps up on the landing. Not far. Not far at all. He could do it just by putting one foot in front of the other. Hold on to the railing for dear life, that’s it. Drag himself up, for his leg was being most uncooperative again. For heaven’s sake, it was only a scratch, really.
    And then he tumbled back down the stairs as Miss Lawrence opened the bathroom door.
    â€œBlast.” Right on his arse in a tangle.
    She stood stunned above him, a hand covering her bee-stung lips. She had a very pretty mouth, Nick acknowledged, even if she never said anything nice with it.
    â€œOh! Are you all right?”
    â€œNever better.” He pulled the robe over his lap. His fall had been graceless and Miss Lawrence was now apt to be as well-informed as anyone regarding his manly endowments.
    â€œI—I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you were downstairs.”
    â€œAnd so I was, but I wanted a bath. In my bathroom.”
    She stiffened. Gad, she was like a hedgehog, all bristles and belligerence. “I was unaware that it is exclusively
your
bathroom, Mr. Raeburn. Sunny uses it as well, although I must tell you the photographic portraits on the wall are most unsuitable for a child her age. Or a person of any age.”
    Nick raised a hand. “No more lectures, I beg you. I feel very odd.”
    â€œYou’ve had a busy night,” she said tartly.
    â€œYes, and it feels never-ending.” His stomach gave an uneasy lurch. Oh no, it wasn’t enough that he was battered and carved up—he was reminded of his brief trip to Egypt in ’01. It hadn’t been brief enough—he’d been feverish and unsettled for weeks after.
    By some miracle, Nick stood up and climbed up the stairs. “I’m afraid you really must step aside, Miss Lawrence.” He was going to be very, very sick.
    â€œOf course. Enjoy your bath.”
    No chance of that. He darted in and shut the door. The walls undulated, and Nick closed his eyes. There were too many faces and arms and legs. Too many breasts, not that seeing them wiggle around him was much of a hardship. Nick loved breasts, large or small—they were such marvels, soft, silky miracles, weren’t they? He turned on the taps, fell to his knees in front of the toilet, then proceeded to vomit up the delightful dinner Mrs. Quinn had prepared.
    There. That was somewhat better, wasn’t it? Never mind the piercing headache that was electrifying his brain and the sudden chills that wracked his body.
    Good Lord. The knife couldn’t have been poisoned, could it? He’d heard tales of such things, but Phil Cross did not look like he had much scientific knowledge at all.
    Of course, one didn’t have to be brilliant to buy poison and dip a knife into it. As for that knife, it had been dipped into Cross’s scuffed boot, hardly a receptacle for anything more dangerous than an odoriferous foot.
    Nick hauled himself up. A bath would fix him. Lots of nice hot water to float away his troubles. He reached over to turn off the faucet. And that was his last act as he slumped to the floor.

Chapter 5
    â€œI believe he must have received quite a blow to his head,” Dr. Samuelson said. “Sometimes these concussions do not manifest themselves until hours after the fact. But he’s got a touch of stomach bug, too, just as the servants and the little girl do. You’re going to have your hands full, Miss Lawrence. Would you like me to inquire about getting one of my nurses in?