***

Dare staggered up the stairs toward his bedchamber. He was exhausted and hungry, but had chosen to eat nothing more than a hunk of dried bread and a bit of stale cheese rather than sit across a table from his wife. He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck as he dragged his weary legs up one step after another. His wife. Charlotte. The woman who was slowly but surely driving him mad. If it wasn’t unbridled desire that was so unbearable he doubted his own control in her presence, it was the exasperation of her misguided attempts to help him with the engine.

Help. Ha! That was a novel word for her actions. No one but Charlotte would think to strip the lubricating oil from the pistons. Her bit of housekeeping had set him back at least two weeks, perhaps more while he cast new parts to replace the ones that had been destroyed.

His stomach growled hollowly as he trudged down the dark hall toward his dressing room, wearily aware that although he very much wanted to, he couldn’t blame Charlotte for the damage. She had been trying to be of assistance, and despite the pain of seeing those pistons destroyed, his heart was warmed by her honest desire to help.

Perhaps there was hope for them after all.

Batsfoam was waiting for him, looking just as tired as he did.

“I thought I told you to go to bed two hours ago?”

“You did, my lord, but I would not be remiss in my duty to you, my most gracious and generous employer—”

Dare waved a weary hand and stopped the flow of what he knew would be a five-minute soliloquy. “Please, not tonight. Or rather, this morning. Just help me off with these boots and get yourself to bed.”

Batsfoam did as requested and assisted his master into a faded, but still elegant, silk dressing gown before informing him that there was a problem with the bedding.

“What sort of a problem?” Dare asked, his hand on the door, almost dropping where he stood, he was so tired.

“There was a small fire, my lord. Nothing serious, and it was extinguished almost immediately, but not before the flames rendered the mattress unsuitable.”

“A fire.” Dare shook his head. He must be more tired than he imagined. “In my bed.”

Batsfoam bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“There was a fire in my bed.”

Batsfoam tidied up the basin and water pitcher.

“As in, flames? In my bed? An object situated well across the room from the fireplace?”

“It is most mysterious, my lord,” Batsfoam agreed, setting Dare’s boots aside to be shined later. “I cannot imagine how a fire came to start itself there, but the fact remains that your bed is unavailable for the evening. I thought perhaps you might desire sleeping on the chaise, and for that purpose arranged it with the appropriate bed linens.”

“The chaise?” Dare asked dully, deciding he was simply too exhausted to pursue the subject of how a fire was started in his bed. “You want me to sleep on the chaise, the one that is at least a foot shorter than I am?”