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—Miss Pimm’s voice. He would do well to remember that she was a marriage-minded debutante. Weren’t they all?
    Which posed a conundrum: how could he avoid her if he remained here?
    It wasn’t as if he was frightened of Miss Pimm and her wiles. Since the age of eighteen, he’d worked hard at becoming unpalatable to respectable families. What he had not managed to accomplish on his own, the scandal sheets assisted with the rest. Of course, there were always those who were more eager to forgive his venial sins in favor of his title and wealth. As of yet, he did not know if Boswick was one of those.
    The uncertainty of it left him with the sense of being a trapped animal and at their mercy.
    â€œWater?” Boswick asked, nudging Liam’s hand with a glass. “Or would you prefer something to ease the pain?”
    â€œI’d rather remain clear-headed, but thank you.” Liam took the glass and lifted it—not without effort—to his parched mouth. When Miss Pimm had issued her final taunt earlier to hope that he wouldn’t get too thirsty, a desire for water had all but consumed him before he’d faded into fitful exhaustion. Now, each sip felt like vindication. In fact, he would enjoy draining this cup in her presence, ending with a satisfied ah .
    Unfortunately, lifting his arm high enough to drain it proved too painful. So he swallowed his last mouthful with a wince instead.
    â€œShall I send a missive to your physician?” Boswick asked as he took back the glass.
    â€œNo. That won’t be necessary,” Liam answered, surprising himself. The truth of it was, he rather preferred Boswick’s straightforward methods over his own physician, Fortier’s, tendency to fuss.
    â€œThen one to your family. Surely, they must be concerned by now.”
    Liam shook his head, suppressing a wry grin. “My family and close acquaintances are accustomed to my frequent absences. Sending word would only cause undue alarm to my Aunt Edith. I would, however, appreciate if you’d send word to my steward, Mr. Rendell.”
    â€œRendell?”
    Curious about the surprise in Boswick’s voice, Liam asked, “Do you know of him?”
    â€œYes. In fact, we rented this house through Rendell. He was courteous and—out of respect—never once passed along the owner’s name. Now, I can only presume this is your property.” Then Boswick recited the address in Knightsbridge.
    Liam nodded as certain aspects of how he came to be here fell into place. “Then that explains the reason I ended up on your doorstep instead of my own. Sudgrave Terrace is my property—though my living quarters will be in the middle bay—for when I am in this part of town.”
    â€œThis part of town? How many houses do you own?” asked a familiar velvet voice from the doorway. Or at least, where he imagined the doorway stood. Liam wondered how long she’d been listening and if her curiosity about his estate was something he should be warned against.
    â€œAdeline, you have better manners than that,” Boswick said in an undertone of reproof.
    â€œPerhaps, but I wish that I’d lingered in the hall a moment longer, and then I would have heard you ask him, Father.” Her tinge of playfulness returned on a laugh. It had gone absent during the moments before they’d parted hours ago. Then she’d left Liam, irritated, in pain, and thirsty. Had her outrage over his supposed insult been part of an act?
    â€œAnd what are you doing with that tray?” Boswick asked. “Here, let me help.”
    Liam heard a small sigh in response, followed by a shuffled step and the clink and rattle of dishes.
    â€œI managed to carry this all the way up from the kitchen,” she said with a lilt of evident pride. “I’m certain I could have made it three more steps, Father.”
    An aroma filled the air. Something sweet and warm, with the barest