Clattering footsteps drew their eyes to the stairs. A maid came hurrying down. Seeing them, she blushed, slowed; stepping off the stairs, she bobbed a curtsy. “Begging y’r pardon, m’lord, m’lady, Reverend Altwood, but Mrs. Connimore says as the young man’s stirring again. She thinks he might wake this time.”
Clarice nodded. “We were just on our way up.” Determinedly, she steered James to the stairs.
Jack came up on James’s other side in time to hear James murmur, “I wonder if it’s Teddy.”
Clarice glanced sharply at James. “Were you expecting him?”
James shook his head. “But he’s the most likely of that lot to come calling.” To Jack, he added, “Teddy’s a canon with the Bishop of London.”
Jack grimaced. “Not many canons drive high-perch phaetons.”
James’s face cleared. “True.” Then his frown returned. “So…”
Clarice stepped off the stairs into the gallery. “Come along, and you can see
who it is, and then we can puzzle over why he’s here.”
Her bracing, faintly exasperated tone got James moving down the corridor. They came to the open sickroom door. Clarice led the way in, then stepped to the side. James followed, his gaze going directly to the young man lying in the bed.
“Not Teddy.” James studied the young man, now restless and twisting fretfully beneath the sheets, frowning as if in the grip of some nightmare. James frowned, too, then his face cleared. “Anthony—it’s Anthony.” James glanced at Jack. “Teddy’s younger brother.”
At the sound of his name, the young man stilled, then, with obvious effort, he lifted his lids. James was standing at the end of the bed, directly in his line of sight.
“James?” The young man blinked, struggling to focus. “Is that you?”
“Yes, indeed, my boy.” James went around the bed so Anthony could more easily see his face. “But what brings you here? And what happened?”
Anthony licked dry lips. Instantly, Clarice was at his other side, holding a glass of water. Jack pushed past James and supported Anthony’s shoulders. He gratefully sipped the water, then weakly motioned that he’d had enough. Jack laid him back on the pillows Mrs. Connimore plumped behind him, relieved to see a little color returning to his face.
“I came to warn you. Teddy sent me.” Anthony looked at James. “He found out there’s some report within the church that names you a military spy through the last decade. You’re under investigation.”
“What?” James looked stunned.
“That’s nonsense.” Clarice stared down at Anthony.
Anthony waved weakly. “We all know that, but, well…something’s going on.” His lids fluttered; he seemed to gather his strength, then he gestured to the bed. “Well, it’s obvious. How else did I get here?”
Jack’s face set. Dragging an armchair from the side of the room, he set it beside the bed, then bundled James, still shocked and stiff, into it. Mrs. Connimore, on the other side of the bed, had pulled up a chair for Clarice; Jack fetched a straight-backed chair for himself.
Clarice turned to Mrs. Connimore. “Perhaps a little chicken broth?”
Mrs. Connimore, eyes on Anthony, nodded. “Just what I was thinking myself. I’ll get it heating.”
She left the room, closing the door behind her.
“Now,” Jack said, “tell us first about the accident on the road.”
Anthony’s lips twisted. “No accident. I’m not such a ham-fisted clod that I would run my cattle into a ditch, and I swear I was stone-cold sober.”
“There was another carriage,” Clarice prompted, and was immediately treated to a hazel-eyed glare. She was taken aback for a second, then met it belligerently. “We know there was.”
Anthony, eyes half-closed, nodded. “He drove me off the road.”
“Can you describe him?” Jack kept his eyes on Clarice; she mutely sniffed, but kept her lips closed.
Anthony frowned. “Largish, pale face—rather round. A gentleman…of sorts.”
Clarice’s description had been more detailed, yet they were clearly describing the same man. “Had you met him or seen him before?” Jack asked.