“Mr. Sinclair,” she said again, more desperately this time. Not caring for propriety, she seized the latch and tried to open it. No luck. The door was locked. She rattled the latch and called out, “Mr. Sinclair. Open this door.”

His muffled voice carried through the barrier of wood. “Go ’way!”

She pulled back, blinking, glaring at the door as though it were alive. Go away? That was an impossibility. She could not abandon him to this.

She dropped her hand away from the latch. After a moment’s hesitation, she pressed her face close to the door, hoping her voice would better penetrate through the wood that way. “Mr. Sinclair, are you unwell? Let me in at once, sir. You’re frightening me.”

What if she had poisoned him? Dear Heavens. What if he was dead?

His voice called out again, this time much firmer, clearly conveying his agitation. “Go away. Now!”

“Oh,” she breathed in keen disapproval.

He was clearly in distress and would not open the door to her even though he obviously required assistance. Stubborn man!

She gave the door a swift kick in a display of pique. Unfortunately that did nothing save bruise her toes.

Standing back with a huff, she propped her hands on her hips and glared at the barrier. She supposed she could find the housekeeper or butler for a master key to gain entry to his chamber. They would oblige if she explained Mr. Sinclair was in some distress and in need of help. It would not be a terribly difficult feat.

But then they would become privy to whatever was happening on the other side of this door, and Sinclair clearly did not want anyone to see him in his present condition otherwise he would not be locked in his chamber. He had told her rather confidently that he would endure whatever was to come. But what if he had underestimated his endurance?

What was his present condition?

It was quiet now on the other side of that door. Too quiet.

Her stomach plummeted as the fear of the unknown beset her. What if he was truly ill? Perhaps he was retching and he thought that was something she could not bear to witness?

She was made of stern stuff, but, of course, he would not realize or understand that. He would not be aware that she had observed retching and all manner of ugly things working beside her father and then later on her own. There could be nothing uglier than lancing one of Mr. Pratt’s boils.

Or perhaps it was worse than retching. Perhaps he was dying.

Because of her.

She pressed a hand against her suddenly roiling stomach, willing the queasiness to subside. She resisted the urge to fling herself against the door and beat on it until he opened to her.

Foolish man! She forced the air in and out of her in a controlled manner. Think, Nora, think.