“Guess you’d rather be at home,” I said, and was surprised to think, Me, too.

Blossom snuffled at Bridget, who eyed the horse somewhat nervously before settling down. Introductions made, I cradled Bridget in my arm, entered my shop, and got a rather rude welcome.

A club rammed into my chest. Bridget fluttered away, landing atop the jars behind the counter.

A brute, heavy-browed and nearly the size of Tom, scowled in my face. The end of his club shoved me back until I stepped on Sally’s foot. “Ow!” she said.

“Que faites-vous ici?” the brute growled.

“Je suis chez moi,” I said, startled.

A voice called weakly from upstairs. “Qui est-ce, Henri?”

“Simon?” I called back.

“Oh. Laisse-les passer.”

The brute grunted and lowered his club. We sidled past him warily, then went upstairs to my bedroom.

Simon lay on his stomach, stripped naked. Dr. Kemp sat calmly on a chair he’d moved from one of the spare rooms, watching as his apprentice finished wrapping Simon in a fresh bandage. The doctor reached over to cover his patient in a bedsheet as Sally appeared, then grinned when he saw me rubbing my chest. “Charming fellow downstairs, eh?”

“Who… what… is that thing?” I said.

“Sorry,” Simon said into his pillow, grimacing at the pain. “That’s—ow!—Henri. My bodyguard. He’s a bit overzealous, I admit—ungh! Must you make it so blasted tight?”

The apprentice looked to his master. Dr. Kemp rolled his eyes and motioned for the boy to continue. “You could have an infection instead, if you like.”

“I loathe you, Doctor, as I do all your kind.”

Dr. Kemp smirked. “As long as you pay the bill.”

“I brought Henri with me when I came to England,” Simon explained. “Found him in a tiny hamlet—argh!—near Calais. He was carrying a bale of hay, all by himself.”

I believed it. “Where’s the guard Lord Ashcombe left?”

“Gone with the marquess. Ashcombe stopped by this morning, and was good enough to send a man to the rooms I’ve been renting to collect Henri. No offense to His Majesty, but I trust my own security better. Though the devil knows why someone would want to murder me.”

“You’re French,” Dr. Kemp said. “That’s reason enough.”

“Can you see how many fingers I am holding up, Doctor?”

The physician laughed. “As you can see,” he said to me, “the vicomte will be fine. I’ll drop by each morning and night, and send Jack”—he indicated his apprentice—“to administer the poppy if you’re not around. But just a few days more. I assume you know its dangers?”

I did. Though the poppy was unrivaled at fighting pain, it was extremely tricky to deal with. Give too much, and the patient would stop breathing. Give it too often, and the patient would become dependent on it, with terrible cravings. I assured Dr. Kemp we could move to willow bark extract whenever he ordered, and he and Jack left.

“Finally, some peace.” Simon sounded drained. “I’m glad to see you again—Tom! Sally! You’re well.” Painfully, he held out a hand for the others to grasp. “What on earth happened to you all? Why weren’t you in London?”