From the stories that her family told of 'dear Georgie', Attie thought perhaps working closely with the Prince Regent might be a mixed bag of gifts, rather. Some delightfully intriguing, and some rather like smelly cheeses that were terribly expensive but no one wanted to eat.

"But things are quite usual again, now. Better even!" Since Button's happiness looked a bit like grim determination and wistful confusion, it must mean that he found Cabot as inscrutable as everyone else did.

Attie narrowed her eyes in frustration. "But why did he come back?" And why had he left in the first place?

"Well, I suppose. I mean, clearly —" Button's fingers folded around each other and he stared down at his whitened knuckles. "I —"

"Miss Atalanta."

Attie swiveled her head on her neck without sitting up, to look over her shoulder at Cabot standing in the doorway with a dancer's — or an assassin's — poise. "Yes?"

"I have retained the services of a hack to return you to Worthington House. You mustn't walk home in the rain." His gaze sharpened on her somewhat. "It would not do for you to become sick as well."

Home. Quiet, tense, disaster-tinged home.

Attie stood and, without consciously doing so, matched Cabot's dignified stance. "Very well. Thank you, Cabot."

Dear Button was like an uncle to her. Or a playmate. Attie dropped a kiss on his thinning hair. Although she was rarely affectionate, when he touched her cheek in farewell, she pressed his palm to her face with her hand. Even lost in thought, Button was the most comforting person she knew.

Aside from Iris.

She followed Cabot out in silence, assuming that he was still irritated with her for her obnoxious behavior. Attie was well aware that she'd been obnoxious. She usually didn't care.

However, as Cabot helped her on with her boiled wool pea coat and her still damp cap, he lifted her chin with one finger and gazed into her eyes. "If you'll wear the dress he made for you, I will tell you 'the truth about Cabot'."

Attie gazed at him for a long moment and for the first time got an inkling why most women became instantly scatterbrained when encountering Cabot. He really was incredibly handsome. As perfect as a prince in a painting — and just as unattainable. Poor Button.

"Will it have pockets?"

CHAPTER 7

Chapter 7

LYSANDER KEPT HIS EYES shut tight and waited for the next hammer blow to his brain. Much better. The pace of the blows was flagging, and the force was mercifully less.

Now that he could think past that attack from within, Lysander took a moment to ponder the fact that he clearly lay in a bed, a proper bed, and not some pallet in a barn, for example.