She placed cool little hands on his arms—an unsettlingly erotic touch—and between them they managed to get him upright; although, by the time they did so Simon was panting. His shoulder felt as if little devils—or maybe saints, in his case—were poking red-hot irons into it. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again there was a cup of tea under his nose. He reached for it, then stopped and stared at his own bare right hand. His signet ring was missing. They’d stolen his ring.

She mistook the reason for his hesitation. “The tea is fresh, I assure you.”

“Most kind.” His voice was embarrassingly weak. His hand shook as he grasped the cup, the familiar clink of his ring against the porcelain absent. He hadn’t taken it off since Ethan’s death. “Damn.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll hold it for you.” Her tone was soft, low and intimate, though she probably didn’t know it. He could rest on that voice, float away on it and let his cares cease.

Dangerous woman.

Simon swallowed the lukewarm tea. “Would you mind terribly writing me a letter?”

“Of course not.” She set the cup down and withdrew safely to her chair. “To whom would you like to write?”

“My valet, I think. Bound to be teased if I alert any of my acquaintances.”

“And we certainly wouldn’t want that.” There was laughter in her voice.

He looked at her sharply, but her eyes were wide and innocent. “I’m glad you understand the problem,” he said dryly. Actually, he was more worried that his enemies would learn that he was still alive. “My valet can bring down miscellaneous things like clean clothes, a horse, and money.”

She laid aside her still-open book. “His name?”

Simon tilted his head, but he couldn’t see the book’s open page from this angle. “Henry. At 207 Cross Road, London. What were you writing before?”

“I beg your pardon?” She didn’t look up.

Irritating. “In your book. What were you writing?”

She hesitated, the pencil immobile on the letter, her head still bent downward.

Simon kept his expression light; though, he grew infinitely more interested.

There was a silence as she finished scratching out the letter; then she laid it aside and looked up at him. “I was sketching, actually.” She reached for the open book and placed it on his lap.

Drawings or cartoons covered the left page, some big, some small. A little bent man carrying a basket. A leafless tree. A gate with one broken hinge. On the right was a single sketch of a man asleep. Him. And not looking his best, what with the bandage and all. It was an odd feeling, knowing she had watched him sleep.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said.