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allow her that fantasy. As long as his home was spotless and his meals hearty and served on time, Jacob was content.
    With Fenwick’s help, he struggled to his feet. His tongue felt three sizes too big for his mouth.
    Fenwick investigated the bloody rip in Jacob’s vest and shirt, searching the skin beneath for the source of blood. He heaved a relieved sigh. “Only a scratch. Have you right as rain in no time, sir. Come now.”
    “No,” Jacob whispered hoarsely. “Have to ...” He fetched out his handkerchief and reached for the dagger again.
    “Don’t trouble yourself, sir,” Fenwick said. “You tasked me with it. I’ll see to that infernal thing presently.”
    “No!” he said with all the force he could muster. The dagger had killed Lord Cambourne. It had tried to kill him. Damned if he’d let anyone else handle it.
    Even though his head was near to exploding, he shook off his servant and bent to retrieve the weapon. He slammed it into the protective leather scabbard and trudged across the room. With a touch on the secret spring behind the Gainsborough landscape over the fireplace, the painting slid to one side to reveal a platinum-lined wall safe. Once he secured the weapon, Jacob sagged against the fireplace, resting his pounding forehead on the cool marble mantel.
    “Here, sir, I’ve brought your tonic.” Fenwick pressed the drink into his hand and then positioned himself under Jacob’s arm on the unwounded side to help him to his chamber.
    Jacob upended the glass, waiting for sweet oblivion to deliver him from pain. He’d learned one thing at least. Lord Cambourne’s hand might have been on the hilt of the blade that killed him, but he hadn’t meant to use it to end his own life. Lady Cambourne would be gratified to know her husband’s death was not a suicide. It was obvious from Jacob’s vision that the poor man had no control over the blade.
    Who or what did was another question entirely.
    He flopped on his bed, letting Fenwick tug off his boots. Before he faded completely into the opiate cloud of his tonic, Jacob realized he’d learned another thing as well.
    Lady Cambourne was right to be afraid. But why did she feel guilty as well?

C HAPTER 3
     
    J acob thrashed on his bed, slipping in and out of fitful, opium-laced dreams.
    A shining cream-colored orb filled his vision. Subtle lights swirled in the hard nacre of the pearl button. He closed his teeth over it and bit it off.
    Lady Cambourne laughed. He spat the button out and went for the next one, marching down the front of her bodice as they rolled together on his capacious bed.
    “No,” she said, palming his cheeks to turn his face away. “Let me undo them or my modiste will have a field day gossiping with her friends about how I lost my buttons.”
    “Be quick then,” Jacob said.
    Or maybe he only thought it. Words were slow to form on his tongue after taking his tonic. His dreams were just as bum-fuzzled. It was hard to be sure whether this was a dream or whether Lady Cambourne was actually there with him, writhing on the sweat-soaked linens. Either way, his need to see more of the countess’s skin was fast becoming more important to him than determining the reality of the encounter.
    As quickly as she undid the buttons, he peeled back the fabric of her bodice.
    Her breasts rose in soft mounds above the lace at the neck of her all-in-one. The fabric was sheer enough that her dark areolae showed through, beguiling shadows around the pointed tips. He bent and suckled her through the thin linen.
    She clutched his head to her, murmuring incoherent encouragement.
    Even with the fabric separating them, she was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. Her flavors burst on his tongue—honey and treacle and spun sugar.
    But he wanted more.
    He turned her around to face away from him, none too gently, and yanked at the laces of her bodice. His fingers were too large, too clumsy, and he fouled the cords in a hopeless knot.
    He growled in