Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,307

met.”

“I live to entertain you!” he called out as she was walking down the hall, and he was quite certain that if she’d had something to throw at the door, she would have done so. With great vigor.

He settled back down against his pillows and smiled. He might make an annoying patient, but she was a crotchety nurse.

Which was just fine with him.

Chapter 9

. . . it is possible that our letters have crossed in the mail, but it does seem more likely that you simply do not wish to correspond. I accept that and wish you well. I shan’t bother you again. I hope you know that I am listening, should you ever change your mind.

—from the Earl of Kilmartin

to the Countess of Kilmartin,

eight months after his arrival in India

It wasn’t easy hiding his illness. The ton didn’t present a problem; Michael simply turned down all of his invitations, and Francesca put it about that he wished to settle in at his new home before taking his place in society.

The servants were more difficult. They talked, of course, and often to servants from other households, so Francesca had had to make sure that only the most loyal retainers were privy to what went on in Michael’s sickroom. It was tricky, especially since she wasn’t even officially living at Kilmartin House, at least not until Janet and Helen arrived, which Francesca fervently hoped was soon.

But the hardest part, the people who were the most fiendishly curious and difficult to keep in the dark, had to be Francesca’s family. It had never been easy maintaining a secret within the Bridgerton household, and keeping one from the whole lot of them was, to put it simply, a bloody nightmare.

“Why do you go over there every day?” Hyacinth asked over breakfast.

“I live there,” Francesca replied, taking a bite of a muffin, which any reasonable person would have taken as a sign that she did not wish to converse.

Hyacinth, however, had never been known to be reasonable. “You live here,” she pointed out.

Francesca swallowed, then took a sip of tea, the delay intended to preserve her composed exterior. “I sleep here,” she said coolly.

“Isn’t that the definition of where you live?”

Francesca slathered more jam on her muffin. “I’m eating, Hyacinth.”

Her youngest sister shrugged. “So am I, but it doesn’t prevent me from carrying on an intelligent conversation.”

“I’m going to kill her,” Francesca said to no one in particular. Which was probably a good thing, as there was no one else present.

“Who are you talking to?” Hyacinth demanded.

“God,” Francesca said baldly. “And I do believe I have been given divine leave to murder you.”

“Hmmph,” was Hyacinth’s response. “If it was that easy, I’d have asked permission to eliminate half the ton years ago.”

Francesca decided just then that not all of Hyacinth’s statements required a rejoinder. In fact, few of them did.

“Oh, Francesca!” came Violet’s voice, thankfully interrupting the conversation. “There you are.”

Francesca looked up to see her mother entering the breakfast room, but before she could say a word, Hyacinth piped up with, “Francesca was just about to kill me.”

“Excellent timing on my part, then,” Violet said, taking her seat. She turned to Francesca. “Are you planning to go over to Kilmartin House this morning?”

Francesca nodded. “I live there.”

“I think she lives here,” Hyacinth said, adding a liberal dose of sugar to her tea.

Violet ignored her. “I believe I will accompany you.”

Francesca nearly dropped her fork. “Why?”

“I should like to see Michael,” Violet said with a delicate shrug. “Hyacinth, will you please pass me the muffins?”

“I’m not sure what his plans are today,” Francesca said quickly. Michael had had an attack the night before—his fourth malarial fever, to be precise, and they were hoping it would be the last of the cycle. But even though he would be much recovered by now, he would still most likely look dreadful. His skin—thank God—wasn’t jaundiced, which Michael had told her was often a sign that the sickness was progressing to its fatal stage, but he still had that awful sickly air to him, and Francesca knew that if her mother caught one glimpse of him she would be horrified. And furious.

Violet Bridgerton did not like to be kept in the dark. Especially when it pertained to a matter about which one could use the term “life and death” without being accused of hyperbole.

“If he’s not available I will simply turn around and go home,” Violet said. “Jam please, Hyacinth.”

“I’ll come, too,” Hyacinth said.

Oh, God. Francesca’s knife skittered