Sarah was visibly put out at this turn of events, but she did not argue. Cecily, on the other hand, jumped to her feet with a wide smile on her face.

“Cecily, do go upstairs and have Peggy redress your hair,” Mrs. Royle said. “We can’t have—”

“Please,” Honoria interrupted. “I would really rather leave immediately.”

Mrs. Royle looked conflicted, but even she could not bring herself to argue that her daughter’s coiffure was more important than the welfare of the Earl of Chatteris. “Very well,” she said briskly. “Off with the two of you, then. But I want to be clear. If he is terribly ill, you must insist upon moving him here to recuperate.”

Honoria was quite sure that was not going to happen, but she didn’t say anything as she strode toward the front door, Cecily and Mrs. Royle right at her heels.

“And make sure he knows that we do not plan to return to Cambridge for several weeks,” Mrs. Royle continued.

“We don’t?” Cecily asked.

“No, and as you are completely free of obligations, you may go over each day to oversee his care.” Mrs. Royle paused. “Er, if that is what Lord Chatteris wishes.”

“Of course, Mother,” Cecily said, but she looked embarrassed.

“And do give him my regards,” Mrs. Royle continued.

Honoria hurried down the steps to wait for the carriage to be brought around.

“And tell him that Mr. Royle and I pray for his speedy recovery.”

“He might not be sick, Mother,” Cecily said.

Mrs. Royle scowled at her. “But if he is . . .”

“I shall relate your good wishes,” Cecily finished for her.

“Here comes the carriage,” Honoria said, nearly desperate to escape.

“Remember!” Mrs. Royle called out as Honoria and Cecily were helped up by a footman. “If he’s sick, bring him—”

But they were already rolling away.

Marcus was still in bed when his butler quietly entered his room and informed him that Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith and Miss Royle had arrived and were waiting in the yellow drawing room.

“Shall I tell them you are not available to receive guests?” the butler inquired.

For a moment Marcus was tempted to say yes. He felt awful, and he was sure he looked worse. By the time Jimmy had found him the previous evening, he had been shivering so hard he was amazed he hadn’t knocked out his own teeth. Then when he got home they had to cut the boot from him. Which would have been bad enough—he rather liked those boots—but his valet had been a bit more aggressive than necessary, and Marcus now sported a four-inch gash on his left leg.