“Did she?” Belle asked to be polite. “Go ahead and lie down now.”
He obeyed, his bare feet and calves making him look strangely vulnerable. She pulled the covers up to his waist.
“And Mrs. Price and Mrs. Tipps are...?”
Belle opened her mouth then closed it again. “I’ll brew the tea.” She started to move away, but he grasped her wrist with his hot hand. Despite how weak he’d appeared a few moments before, his grip was surprisingly strong, and his fingers easily encircled her wrist. Belle had always been rather small and slight, but she’d never felt small or slight. Until now.
“They are your aunts? Your mother-in-law?”
“I’m not married, and my aunts do not live in London.”
He gave her an expectant look, and she wanted to squirm. The longer he looked at her, the more conscious she was of her smallpox scars. She had tried all of her life not to care what people thought of them. She only hid them with her hair so as not to have to listen to comments about how it was too bad she was scarred because she could have been a true beauty. But for some reason, she did not want Mr. Arundel to see her scars. She turned her face slightly and ducked her head, hiding her left side from view as best she could. “They are neighbors.”
His grip on her wrist tightened, not painfully but almost as though he’d been given an unwelcome surprise. “Your neighbors know I am here.”
“Not exactly,” she said. “It’s not as though we told any of them, but Mrs. Price is always looking out of her window and saw the Randalls’ carriage arrive.” She glanced up at him. “Would you release my wrist, please?”
“No. Why didn’t you tell her some sort of fabrication?”
“I suppose because I didn’t realize your presence here was a secret.” She shook her hand, trying to free her wrist.
“You realize that now?”
She took a breath. “My father pointed out that since you had been stabbed, rather deliberately, the man who stabbed you might be looking for you. Unfortunately, that was only after Mrs. Price and Mrs. Tipps had come into the shop and insisted on helping my father with your care.”
Arundel abruptly dropped her hand. “Are you saying the ladies here earlier today were...customers?”
Belle had the distinct impression that she shouldn’t confirm that. And now she was feeling defensive. “That’s right. We’re selling tea, biscuits, or a peek at the injured man upstairs. We hope you will bring in a sixpence a week.”
He said nothing for a long moment. “I should think I could bring in at least a crown.”
“Someone has a high opinion of himself. Only pistol ball injuries are worth that much.”
He barked out a short laugh. The sound of it warmed her. She didn’t delude herself that the moment of levity meant he was past the worst of his recovery. His fever could spike again, and most likely would. The infection raging inside him could spread. He might still die. But, by God, she would get some tea in him first.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes with the tea. Try not to kill yourself while I’m out.”
She put water on to boil, the familiar ritual of making tea soothing her. While the water heated, she sliced a piece of bread and found a bit of cheese, eating it standing over the stove. Once the water boiled, she rinsed the teapot and warmed it with the hot water. Then she dumped out the water, put the water back on the flame, and filled the pot with tea leaves. She poured the now boiling water over the leaves and allowed the tea to steep. Belle had an innate sense of how long to allow a tea to steep. Some blends should steep longer than others. Her father often lifted the lid of the teapot and checked the color or aroma of the tea, but Belle never had to do so. She simply knew when the tea was ready.
While she waited, she sliced another piece of bread and put it on a plate to bring in with the tea. Mr. Arundel might not eat it, but if he could stomach it, it would help him regain some of his strength.
Finally, the tea was ready, and she brought the tray into her chamber. Arundel was still lying where she’d left him, his eyes open and looking about her room. When she stepped in, he smiled at her, and Belle almost looked over her shoulder to see who he might be smiling at. Ridiculous. Of course, he was smiling at her.
“Here we are.”
“It smells good.”
“I’ve brought you some bread too, if you’re up to eating something.”
“I’ll try.” She helped prop him up on the pillow then stood uncertainly beside the bed. Should she hold the teacup to his lips or allow him to drink on his own? He made the decision for her, taking the cup from her hands. The cup shook on the saucer, making a rattling sound, but he seemed to have a grip on it. Belle didn’t want to stare at him, so she stepped to the window and looked out. The rain seemed to have stopped for the moment, and she opened the window and leaned out, looking up and down Fenchurch Street. The dark clouds in the distance promised more rain. She stretched, peering down Fenchurch Street as far as she could in the direction her father had taken and wondered, again, when he would return.
“What’s the matter?” Arundel asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “It looks like more rain is coming.”
“You’re not a very good liar, Miss Howard.”
Belle rounded on him. “Come see for yourself then. Or just wait an hour. It will be raining again for certain.”
“That’s not what I meant. Something is wrong. I’ve been trained to observe people and note small gestures and expressions. You’re worried about something.”
Interesting how he said he had been trained to observe. If she was a curious sort of person, she might have asked more about that, but she had learned it was better not to be too curious. Sometimes one discovered information one would rather not know. Belle waved a hand. “I don’t think it takes much training to read someone. I can tell the moment someone enters my shop what sort of tea they want.”
“I imagine you can judge the quality of their clothing and steer them toward tea they can afford.”
“There’s that.” She nodded. “But it’s more than that. Some people are keen to try something new and others want what’s comfortable. That sort will never stray from their Darjeeling or their Earl Grey.” She gestured to the cup he held.
“I must say, it’s very good. Probably the best Earl Grey I’ve tasted.”
“I know,” she said. He grinned and sipped again.
“For those people, the ones who want comfort, I’ll never sway them,” she continued. “They might be willing to try an Assam or an Irish Breakfast, but a Jasmine or a Pai Mu Tan? Out of the question.”
“What’s Pai Mu Tan?”
“A sweet white tea. It’s not something you’d enjoy.”
One dark eyebrow winged up. “How do you know?”
“Because it’s sweet and subtle, and you are anything but.”
“I might say the same of you.”
“I hope so. I’d hate to be called sweet or subtle. Still, I enjoy a Pai Mu Tan from time to time.”
“But it’s not your favorite.”
“No, it’s not. Like you, I enjoy something stronger and bolder.”
“I don’t like bitter teas,” he said.