Hunt nodded. “I’ll wait in the hallway,” he said gruffly, standing from the bed. Motioning Daisy forward with the tray, he continued to stare at Annabelle. “Drink the clivers, no matter how it tastes. Or I’ll come back in here and pour it down your throat.” Retrieving his coat, he left the room.

Sighing with relief, Daisy set the tray at the bedside table. “Thank God,” she said. “I wasn’t certain how I was going to make him go, if he refused. Here…let me lift you a bit higher, and I’ll push another pillow behind you.” The girl elevated her deftly, demonstrating surprising competence. Taking up a huge earthenware mug filled with steaming contents, Daisy pressed the edge against her lips. “Have some of this, dear.”

Annabelle swallowed the bitter brown liquid and recoiled. “Ugh—”

“More,” Daisy said inexorably, lifting it to her mouth.

Annabelle drank again. Her face was so numb that she wasn’t aware that some of the medicine had drib-bled from her lips until Daisy picked up a napkin from the tray and blotted her chin. Cautiously Annabelle lifted exploratory fingertips to the frozen skin of her face. “Feels so odd,” she said, her voice slurred. “No sensation in my mouth. Daisy…don’t say that I was drooling while Mr. Hunt was here?”

“Of course not,” Daisy said immediately. “I would have done something about it if you had been. A true friend doesn’t let another friend drool when a man is present. Even if it’s a man that one doesn’t wish to attract.”

Relieved, Annabelle applied herself to downing more of the clivers, which tasted rather like burned coffee. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she was beginning to feel the tiniest bit better.

“Lillian must have had a devil of a time finding your mother,” Daisy commented. “I can’t imagine what has taken them so long.” She drew back a little to look at Annabelle, her brown eyes sparkling richly. “I’m actually glad, though. If they had come quickly, I would have missed seeing Mr. Hunt’s transformation from a big bad wolf into…well…a somewhat nicer wolf.”

A reluctant laugh gurgled in Annabelle’s throat. “Quite something, isn’t he?”

“Yes, indeed. Arrogant and oh-so-masterful. Like a figure from one of those torrid novels that Mama is forever ripping from my hands. It’s a good thing that I was here, or he probably would have stripped you right down to your unmentionables.” She continued to chatter as she helped Annabelle to drink more of the clivers, and blotted her chin once more. “You know, I never thought I would say this, but Mr. Hunt isn’t quite as terrible as I thought.”

Annabelle twisted her lips experimentally as a modicum of sensation returned, making them prickle. “He has his uses, it seems. But…don’t expect that the transformation is permanent.”

CHAPTER 13

Barely two minutes had passed before Simon saw the group he had earlier predicted, consisting of the doctor, Lord Westcliff, Mrs. Peyton, and Lillian Bowman. Leaning his shoulders back against the wall, Simon gave them a speculative stare. Privately, he was amused by the palpable dislike between Westcliff and Miss Bowman, whose obvious mutual animosity betrayed the fact that words had been exchanged.

The doctor was a venerable old man who had attended Westcliff and his relatives, the Marsdens, for nearly three decades. Glancing at Simon with keen eyes set deeply in an age-furrowed face, he spoke with unflappable calmness. “Mr. Hunt, I am told that you assisted the young lady to her room?”

Simon brusquely described Annabelle’s condition and symptoms to the doctor, choosing to omit that he, and not Daisy, had been the one to discover the puncture marks on Annabelle’s ankle. Mrs. Peyton listened in white-faced distress. Frowning, Lord Westcliff bent to murmur to Mrs. Peyton, who nodded and thanked him distractedly. Simon guessed that Westcliff had promised that the best care possible would be provided until her daughter had recovered fully.

“Of course I won’t be able to confirm Mr. Hunt’s opinion until I examine the young lady,” the doctor remarked. “However, it may be advisable to begin brewing some clivers right away, in the event that the illness was indeed caused by adder bite—”

“She’s already drinking some,” Simon interrupted. “I sent for it about a quarter hour ago.”

The doctor regarded him with the special vexation reserved for those who undertook to make a diagnosis without benefit of a medical degree. “Clivers is a potent drug, Mr. Hunt, and possibly injurious in the event that a patient is not suffering from snake venom. You should have waited for a doctor’s opinion before administering it.”

“The symptoms of adder bite are unmistakable,” Simon replied impatiently, wishing the man would cease tarrying in the hallway and go do his job. “And I wanted to alleviate Miss Peyton’s discomfort as quickly as possible.”

The old man’s wiry gray brows descended low over his eyes. “You’re quite certain of your own judgment,” came the peppery observation.

“Yes,” Simon replied, without blinking.

Suddenly the earl let out a muffled chuckle and settled a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “I’m afraid that we’ll be forced to stand out here indefinitely, sir, if you attempt to convince my friend that he’s wrong about anything. ‘Opinionated’ is the mildest of adjectives one could apply to Mr. Hunt. I assure you, your energies are far better directed toward caring for Miss Peyton.”