“But...” Belle all but tripped on a step. “But you cannot leave. He needs someone to nurse him.”
“I’m afraid I must leave. But not to worry, you may stay and nurse him. I’m sure he will be well in a few days.”
Belle looked at Arundel, whose face was white as a ghost and who was struggling to climb the next step. Blood had seeped through the blanket he held against his chest, meaning his stitches had opened again.
“Thomas,” Lady Keating said calmly. “Catch him before he falls.”
The footman behind Arundel stepped forward and caught the man as his eyes rolled back and he fell. Another footman joined Thomas and the two hefted Arundel between them and carried him the rest of the way.
Belle stood at the top of the staircase and wondered if she could make a run for it. If she didn’t leave now, she might never get away.
“Are you coming, Isabelle Howard?” Lady Keating asked.
Belle met the other woman’s eyes. It seemed to Belle that the baroness knew exactly what she’d been thinking and wouldn’t stop her if she ran. Belle was tempted. Her shop was in a shambles and her father injured. The desire to return to Fenchurch Street was strong. But then so was the desire to stay here. Something pulled at her when she thought of Arundel. Responsibility?
Perhaps.
Duty?
That was part of it.
The memory of the kiss they’d shared?
Belle sighed. She was in trouble, and she knew it. Worse, she wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter Eleven
“This is my friend, er—” Lady Keating made a vague gesture to a man standing near the windows of the chamber they’d just entered. Belle was looking about the chamber, which was obviously a hastily prepared guest chamber. It was large, the size of half her flat. A hearth with a crackling fire was situated on one wall and a large bed with four posts was on the opposite wall. A maid was folding the Holland covers and Arundel was laid on the large bed even as another maid was still tucking the fresh sheets under the mattress.
Belle’s gaze traveled over several other furnishings—chairs, couch, rug, dressing table—before it returned to the man stepping away from one of the windows. He was dressed in black and was small in stature for a man, perhaps only a few inches taller than Belle. He had brown skin that looked weathered and lined from age or sun, and his black hair was worn close to his head. He had a long nose that reminded her of the masks she’d seen people wear as part of a costume to represent plague doctors of the past.
“Er—let’s call him Smith,” Lady Keating said, indicating the man who had gone to Arundel’s side.
“Smith?” Belle raised her brows. This man was not a Smith. The man-who-was-not-Smith raised Arundel’s wrist and pressed two fingers to the inside. At the same time, he lifted Arundel’s closed eyes, to look at the whites under the lids. “Is he a doctor?” Belle asked.
“Something like that,” Lady Keating said. “I trust him with my life. He’s traveled the world studying medicine and has an unparalleled knowledge of medicines and treatments. Shall we leave him to it?”
Belle, who had wanted to escape nursing the moment it had been thrust upon her found that she now wanted to stay. But Lady Keating’s suggestion to leave had really been more of a directive. No doubt not-Smith would need to strip Arundel in order to see the wound, and it wouldn’t be seemly for ladies to be present. Of course, she’d seen his wound and was quite familiar with his bare chest by now, but that wasn’t the point.
“Would you like some tea?” Lady Keating asked, and those were powerful words.
“Yes,” Belle said firmly. “Yes, I would.”
She patted her pocket, where she had slipped the Pan Long Yin Hao from the safe before she’d found the bucket in the back room. The fire was her priority, but she would never have left the Pan Long Yin Hao at risk of destruction from the fire. It was too valuable—and too delicious.
She followed Lady Keating to another chamber, surprised to find it was not the drawing room but an antechamber to what was most likely her bed chamber. A fire burned here, and a small grouping of chairs had been arranged before the hearth. A maid stood at the ready, and Lady Keating asked her to bring tea.
“If you don’t mind, I brought my own tea.”
Lady Keating gave Belle a startled look and the maid lifted her brows in affront. Belle raised her hands in supplication. “I am certain your tea is of the best quality, but I brought a very special tea with me, and it would calm me to drink it.”
“Very well.” Lady Keating glanced at the maid. “Bring the tea things, and Miss Howard will prepare her tea.”
“I would be happy to make you a cup as well,” Belle offered.
Lady Keating inclined her head. “Very well.” She gestured to her maid who left the two alone. Belle stood awkwardly, taking in this small, cozy room.
“Please sit.” Lady Keating indicated the grouping of chairs and Belle sat gratefully, feeling the exhaustion wash over her as soon as she had a moment to feel the heat of the fire and the softness of the chair. “Do you always carry tea with you?”
Belle snapped her eyes open. She must stay awake. “I confess I do.”
“I imagine when you own a tea shop you become quite particular.”
“My father says I was born particular. From a very young age I had an ability to taste and smell the best blends of tea. We are a small shop on Fenchurch Street, but I like to think we have a reputation for selling the best tea in London.”
“And how do you find such exquisite tea? I confess that though I am a copious tea drinker, I know little about the business.”
“I go to the St. Katharine Docks and inspect the tea myself. I only buy the best.”
Lady Keating raised a brow. “You go to the docks? Is that not dangerous?”
Belle knew how to be careful. “I know who to trust and have friends there who look out for me.”
“It’s good to have friends,” Lady Keating said, glancing at the door as the maid entered with the tea tray. Belle had the feeling the baroness would have said more if her servant hadn’t come in at that moment.
“Anything else, my lady?” the maid asked.
“No. You may retire. It will be an early morning, Flanners.”
Belle did not wait for permission but began the process of preparing the Pan Long Yin Hao. She was aware Lady Keating watched her and heard the woman’s intake of breath when she revealed the tea leaves. “Those are beautiful,” Lady Keating said.
“This is the tea of the Emperor of China. I’m told it’s hand rolled by royal servants.”
“It’s lovely. What is it called?”
“The man I bought it from called it Curled Dragon Silver Tips, but it’s more commonly known as Pan Long Yin Hao.”
“Commonly known? I have never heard of that.”
Belle was in her element now. “It’s a green tea. Green tea is harvested and prepared in a very special way. The leaves are plucked and then fired in a pan to make them soft. Next the leaves are rolled over heat. The farmers use their fingers, palms, and forearms to roll the tea. The process is quite intensive, I must say.”