Free Rogue in Red Velvet by Lynne Connolly Page A

maid for at least a night.
    The wine tasted good enough and she’d downed the first glass without really noticing, wondering if she could put her feet up on one of the stools and relax for an hour. She wondered where her maid had got to when the latch rattled.
    The world rocked under her feet. As if her perception had suddenly developed an echo and followed her rather than coming with her. She heard the man saying the same thing twice, saw blurred double images of him. More tired than she’d thought. With a sigh, she sank back on to the hard wooden settle. Her senses telescoped and unconsciousness washed over her.

Chapter 7

    Connie groaned then stopped because it hurt too much, the sound reverberating around her head. Submitting to the inevitable, she rolled over and vomited, a bare second’s warning between coming awake and her stomach rebelling.
    Someone held a foul-smelling pot under her chin.
    She was grateful all the same, as she was beyond doing such things for herself. Her hair fell around her face until someone yanked it back. The roots pulled but she strained forward and expelled whatever noxious substance had churned in her stomach. She couldn’t speak, could only gasp, regaining her breath.
    The person leaned her back against a hard surface.
    A bedroom, adequately but roughly furnished. Something gauzy and shimmering draped the bed and burning pastilles heavily perfumed the air. A thin stream of smoke spiraled up from a pottery cottage on the mantelpiece. She closed her eyes. “Am I still at the Belle Sauvage?” Even speaking made her head throb.
    “No, dearie, you’ve moved on. You’re in my house now.”
    The voice was female and the accent unfamiliar. She squinted up and spied a woman, her face creased with so many wrinkles she seemed timeless, as if she’d defeated death. She wore a gown of youthful yellow with fancy lace ruffles and a cap that fluffed around her iron-grey curls like a morning raincloud.
    Connie didn’t like the oversweet smell but approved of the other things, like the soft bed and the way the drapery masked the over-bright sunshine outside. “So where are we?”
    “Covent Garden.”
    If that meant something special, she missed it, but considering her state, she was lucky to remember her own name. Her head swam and throbbed and her limbs felt like lamb’s wool. She forced herself to concentrate.
    The room was small and strangely decorated but that might be the difference in taste between her home and London. The luxurious bed contrasted with the other perfunctory and cheaply made fittings. But she wouldn’t dare criticize. They might toss her out and the way she was feeling, she couldn’t risk that. But she didn’t know anyone who lived in Covent Garden, unless the Downhollands had leased a house here. “Is this a lodging house?”
    “Just so, dearie.” She didn’t like the familiar “Dearie,” but let it pass. “You must have eaten some bad food. So you need to eat some good to build up your strength and then we’ll see about getting you out of bed.”
    She covered her eyes with one hand. “Not yet.”
    “No, not yet. But I’ll bring you something light on a tray and then we’ll see how you feel. Keep sitting up and I’ll bring you a fresh pot. Maybe two.”
    “Can you contact my fiancé, Mr. Jasper Dankworth, please?”
    “He knows.”
    Connie sat very still, thinking but her mind whirled and she couldn’t concentrate. Someone was shouting in the corridor outside and she wished he would stop.
    * * * *
    If Alex had thought to cast off his sole remaining parent by moving out of the house his father owned in London, he was doomed to disappointment.
    Father dropped around regularly, this time to share breakfast with him. “You disappoint me, boy.” Lord Leverton presented far too colorful a figure at breakfast, his blue coat and green waistcoat magnificent in their disdain for each other.
    Alex enjoyed breakfasting on his own but today he had to make