Page 24 of Rakes & Reticules
She willed her feet to take her to the door, but they refused to obey.
Siobhan blinked, trying to focus her hazy gaze. “I feel so peculiar.”
Her voice sounded strange—frail and wispy.
“I believe the lad’s going to faint, Mr. Westbrook.”
Is that what this sensation is?
Then, she was falling, her cap tumbling from her head as she sank into blissful nothingness.
Mr. Westbrook’s voice raised in astonishment penetrated her stupor.
“My God, Chandler.He’sashe.”
CHAPTERTHREE
A bedchamber at De la Chance
An hour later
Neck bowed and arms folded, Fletcher stood beside Miss Kenney’s bed—or whatever her real name was—and listened to Doctor Philbourne’s diagnosis.
“I cannot be positive, of course, without observing her longer. However, my initial examination suggests Miss Kenney is afflicted with the ague and is definitely malnourished and exhausted.” He removed his spectacles and, after tucking them into his coat pocket, pulled two brown bottles from his well-used leather case.
“This tincture will strengthen her blood. A teaspoon once daily.” He held up one bottle, then the other. “Give her a teaspoon of this every six hours. Administer hot compresses and poultices as needed when she is chilled, and cool sponge baths when her fever rises.”
He passed the bottles to Fletcher.
That meant Fletcher would have to impose upon his female employees to take turns caring for her. They might refuse, and he wouldn’t blame them.
He hadn’t hired them to play nurse to a deceptive slip of a woman.
When Fletcher had risen this morning, serious concerns had niggled, but never would he have guessed the day’s events would bring him to standing over an invalid’s bed. By now, all his staff would know Miss Kenney had misled him. He, who took pride in being able toreadpeople, couldn’t tell this woman wasn’t a teenage boy.
How old was she?
Certainly not as young as he’d first believed.
One hand on his hip, Dr. Philbourne regarded the slender form, almost as pale as the sheets she lay upon. Her midnight braids, eyelashes, and eyebrows stood out in stark contrast to her transparent skin. The thick royal blue counterpane tucked beneath her arms almost hid her chest’s shallow but steady rise and fall.
“She’ll require complete bed rest for at least a week and as much food as she’ll eat, Mr. Westbrook.” The doctor glanced upward, a graying eyebrow quirked in either awe or disbelief. “You truly didn’t know she was a female?”
“No.” Fletcher shook his head.
More fool him.
Not only had Miss Kenney kept her hair hidden, but she’d also bound her small breasts. That explained why she wore that godawful oversized coat.
Regardless, now that Fletcher knew her sex, he could scarcely fathom he hadn’t detected it before. Her bone structure was too delicate to be male. Her voice, though sultry, was too high. Her innate graceful movements, which he’d taken as weakness in a lad, also betrayed her.
She was a superb actress; he’d give her that.
When was the last time he felt such an utter, sodding fool?
Though Fletcher presented a calm outward facade, inwardly he seethed with supremely controlled fury at her betrayal. Not only had Miss No Name deceived him from day one about her gender, but she had been duplicitous about last night.
The former was exasperating—the latter unforgivable.
