Page 47 of In Bed with the Earl

He remained unbending in his silence.

Abandoning any attempts at discourse, Verity resumed her study of Mr. North’s rooms when the surly stranger at last spoke.

“Youhave experience with it?”

“My former nursemaid,” she murmured. Verity crooked four fingers, urging him over. “I’ve several ways to help with that.”

Reluctantly, he quit his place at the wall and ventured over. And for a moment, with him unfurled to his full height, she questioned the wisdom of engaging the giant of a man in any way. He had to be nearly two feet taller than her. Broad, like the ancient oak she’d climbed in Surrey. And as scarred as that old tree, too.

When he stopped before her, Verity craned her head all the way back until her neck muscles arched and ached. “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered. “You’re entirely too tall. If you will.”

He followed her gaze over to one of the chairs in Mr. North’s rooms. “If Oi will, wot?”

Drawing out the scrolled green armchair at Mr. North’s desk, she patted the watersilk squab cushion. “I can’t very well help you from all the way down here.” She flashed a smile.

And then, miracle of miracles that day, Mr. No-Name sat.

Verity reached for his face, and the older stranger jerked away, giving her his cheek.

She sighed and let her arms fall to her side. “I cannot help you unless I have a look.”

“Didn’t ask for help.”

No, he was correct on that score, but hehadclaimed a seat.

Just then another tear slipped from his eye, and wound a path down his cheek. “It’s just me eyes,” he barked. “Oi ain’t crying.”

“Of course you aren’t.” She spoke in the gentling voice she’d used when Livvie had suffered a fall and scraped knee over the years. “That’s the rheumy. It’s quite common, I’ll have you know,” she explained, probing at the swollen corner of his right eye, and his like-swollen left eye.

“Is it?”

It was a grudging concession from a man who seemed more likely to toss her out the pair of windows than answer any query.

“Oh, yes,” she said conversationally. “The older a person gets, the more their eyes tend to tear, and then this coal and soot in London certainly doesn’t help anyone.”

“Aye, ya’re correct there.”

“Though mine are also quite bloodshot from the quality of the air.” To demonstrate as much, Verity lowered her head a fraction so she faced the old man squarely.

There was another one of those familiar grunts from him. “Yar eyes are foine enough.”

Knowing the stranger even just a handful of minutes, she’d wager everything that it was as close to a compliment as the old codger had ever allowed.

Silently mouthing a list of items, Verity did a sweep of Mr. North’s quarters until she found a stack of still-untouched white linens. Gathering one, and thinking better of it, she grabbed another, and then made a beeline for the bath. “Well, this won’t do,” she murmured, studying the grimy film coating the top. Her gaze landed on the untouched brown bucket of water that had gone unused. Falling to a knee, she rinsed her two cloths, wrung them out, and returned to Mr. No-Name’s side.

“Wot’s that?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

It did not escape her notice, however, that the harsh, clipped edge when he spoke had gone.

“They’re compresses.” She held one of the soaked linens aloft. “May I, sir?”

“Ain’t a ‘sir.’ Moi name’s Bram.” He hesitated, then gave a small nod.

Verity applied the warm cloth. “This will soothe them some.” She proceeded to explain. “I believe the air dries out the eyes, and they require moisture. That, and who knows what becomes trapped within them.” She applied the second damp linen to his other eye. “How does that feel?”

A little groan escaped him.

She smiled. “My nursemaid said that her eyes often feel gritty, and this will help with that sensation. But you should take care to do it often to ease that discomfort.” When the cloths had gone from warm to lukewarm to cool to the touch, she removed the compresses, soaked them, and reapplied those damp cloths. “This is not all you can do to help them.”

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