Page 5 of The Truth Serum (My Lady’s Potions #2)

“Be careful,” Benedict whispered in English. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Was there anguish in his tone? Desperation? Or simple anxiety as his gaze hopped to the clock on the mantlepiece.

“I need to leave,” Benedict said as he switched into bastardized Portuguese. “Do you trust your host?”

“Ras? With my life.”

“You’re sure.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’d bring him into the work if he weren’t about to get married.”

“Hmmm,” Benedict said. “And do you trust his fiancée?”

Nate’s nod came slower this time. He didn’t have the benefit of years of friendship with Kynthea, but everything he’d learned about her said she was exactly as she appeared: a poor relation who was abruptly, suddenly, in absolute love with a duke.

What he wouldn’t give for Rebecca to look at him the way Kynthea gazed as Ras. She’d done that once, but that had been long ago.

He sighed. Inactivity was turning him maudlin. He couldn’t even write in his journal right now. Thoughts kept running chaotically through his brain, thanks to the fever. That was gone now, but he still hadn’t picked up a pencil. He hadn’t the will.

He mustered a smile as Lord Benedict rose to his feet. The man didn’t say anything more beyond his customary good-byes, but the look he gave Nate was something else. It was long and full of worry. But then he’d often looked that way when considering Nate.

After all, he knew more than anyone else about what Nate had been doing for the last ten years. He and Lord Benedict had grown up together in the spy service, though the man was his senior in age and the service.

Benedict’s final words were, “Don’t be stupid. And don’t talk.” Which for Benedict was the same thing.

“Go on wit ye,” Nate drawled, pulling out his best no man’s accent.

Neither Cornish nor Cockney, he centered it as a general low-brow London accent.

It usually served his purpose and was enough to make Benedict wince at the coarse tones.

The man hated pretending to be anything less polished than what he was, a future earl with a very bright future in diplomacy.

So the man shot Nate a long-suffering stare before taking his leave. Less than five minutes later, the door opened again, this time by Ras. The duke’s gaze was somber as he stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. He looked like he was about to discipline a recalcitrant boy.

Nate was having none of it. “Leave off, Ras. And fetch me some fresh water. I need to clean my wounds.”

“Water’s there,” Ras said as he gestured to the pitcher set to the side of the table. Then he appeared to make a decision. He entered the room and shut the door firmly behind him.

“Interesting conversation you had there. I counted five different languages, plus English.”

Nate’s gaze abruptly sharpened. “You were listening at the door?”

“I was.” He didn’t sound the least apologetic, but he did grab the water pitcher and filled a basin before dropping a clean cloth into it. “Not at first,” he added. “But when I overheard Russian, I was intrigued.”

“Did you understand it?”

“Not a word. Don’t speak it. But I did wonder what Lord Castlereagh’s right-hand man was doing visiting you. When did you two become friends?”

Nate waved a hand in a casual gesture. “Oh, we met when I first came to London after…” After he and Rebecca had blown up both their lives. “After I left school.”

“Was he here then?” Ras clearly was thinking about the man’s age. “Wouldn’t he have been in school?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

“And you were here sometimes, sometimes not.” It was an echo of what Nate always said about his early training. He did this and that. Went here and there. Met some people, kissed a few girls, killed a few villains.

He never said that last part out loud, but clearly Ras guessed that his wastrel life was a bit more complicated than it appeared.

“I see,” Ras said.

No, he really didn’t. But he knew more than nearly everyone else outside of the Foreign Office.

Ras waited a bit, no doubt hoping that Nate would break down and share more information. He wouldn’t, but Ras always tried. In the end, he sighed.

“Keep your secrets,” he said. “I came in here to talk about Fletcher.”

Nate winced. Rebecca’s brother was a problem.

Always. He was the man who constantly stood between Nate and Rebecca.

He was the one who blamed his father’s death on their tendre.

He was the one who had intercepted Nate’s gossip columns to add extra damaging paragraphs, attacking Kynthea under the guise of Nate’s alias, Mr. Pickleherring.

Why? He’d said it was to discredit Nate in Ras’s eyes.

As if that wasn’t convoluted. No sane man could understand.

Which, of course, was the point. He wasn’t exactly sure Fletcher was sane.

“I think he’s been following me,” Nate said.

In fact, Nate had a feeling that Fletcher had set the ruffians on him in the first place.

He didn’t want to think that the man hated him that much, but he couldn’t discount the possibility.

Which was a much better scenario than the one where Fletcher was a French spy.

None of which made logical sense, but that was the whole problem. Fletcher didn’t make sense.

Ras leaned forward. “Did Fletcher attack you? At the docks?”

“It was five men who wanted money and my boots. I have no idea what Fletcher wants.”

Ras frowned, clearly thinking hard, but he didn’t pursue the topic. “I’ve spoken with the newspaper. Mr. Pickleherring’s gossip column is gone for good.”

Nate sighed. That had been one of his few reliable sources of income. “Another columnist will take up the mantle.”

“But it won’t be you.”

“It wasn’t me anyway. Not toward the end.”

Ras didn’t comment as he wrung out the washcloth and handed it to Nate. Except Nate couldn’t reach his feet without straining his ribs. After two painful attempts, he gave up with a grunt.

“See?” Ras taunted. “You need help.” He took the cloth, lifted the linen off Nate’s feet, and began unwrapping the bandages. Once that was done, he began washing Nate’s abused feet.

Fortunately, the wounds he’d acquired while trying to walk home with broken toes, appeared to be healing nicely. But before he could comment, Ras shot him a hard look.

“So what do you think Fletcher saw that night? Why was he there? Why is he following you?”

Nate winced as he glared up at the ceiling. He hated lying here helpless, staring at the ceiling while someone else tried to help him. Especially since there wasn’t anything his friend could do.

“It’s not your problem.”

“I’ve had Kynthea invite Lady Rebecca over for tea.”

Nate jolted. “What?”

“You heard me. Look, I don’t know what you’ve been doing all these years, but I’m beginning to guess. Let me help you.”

“By bringing Rebecca here?” Right downstairs, when he couldn’t walk without a crutch. Damn it, it would be torture to have her so close and not be able to talk to her!

“She’ll naturally want to see how you’re faring, won’t she? We can arrange a sick room visit. You could ask her about Fletcher.”

Fletcher would be the last thing on his mind when he was talking to her. God, he’d longed for just such an opportunity. Ever since her father had caught them doing so much more than kissing.

“Will she tell you why Fletcher seems intent on destroying you?” Ras pressed. “Should I talk to her instead?”

“No!” Nate struggled onto his elbows. “I need to talk to her. It needs to be me.”

Ras finished cleaning one foot and went on to the other. “I’ll see what can be done to arrange it, but it’ll only work if she comes alone.”

True, but the odds were strong that she’d be alone. “Her mother prefers to hold court rather than go out visiting.”

“What if Fletcher escorts her?”

Nate grinned. “Then I’ll happily have a talk with him.

” He might not be able to stand without pain, but he sure as hell could tolerate a little discomfort if he could give Fletcher the drubbing the man surely deserved.

The man had stood by and gleefully watched while Nate was nearly beaten to death.

Nate needed to know exactly why the man would do that.

Did he just enjoy watching brutality? Or was there something more?

Ras shot him a hard look. “We’re trying to quiet the situation, not exacerbate it.” He pursed his lips. “If Fletcher comes, I’ll talk to him. I hate giving him the satisfaction of thinking we’re friends, but—”

“Don’t try to play him. He’s not stupid.”

“No, but he does have an ego. I can play to that.” Nate didn’t like involving his friend in any of this, but Ras was right.

They needed to know why Fletcher was following him.

It seemed remarkably coincidental that Fletcher had been there just as Nate was investigating gun running, but the two things could be completely unrelated.

Either way, Ras wasn’t trained in this type of investigation.

“Don’t interfere. I’ll can figure out what Fletcher’s issue is with me, then I’ll do what needs to be done.”

Ras sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”