Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“Just wait until he turns on you. Then you’ll want to do something, I wager.”

“What will you wager, Maggie?” Brent said from the doorway.

Maggie jumped. “Can’t you knock, Brent? Why, Saint and I might have been doing something very private.”

Saint choked on his coffee. He looked up as Brent crossed the room. He looked different, drawn, weary. He’d lost weight.

“I wouldn’t see anything I haven’t already seen a hundred times,” Brent said, sprawling uninvited into one of Maggie’s velvet chairs. “From the guilty look on your face, Maggie, my wager would be that you’ve been gossiping. Of course, all women are just born that way, aren’t they?”

“Don’t be so nasty, Brent,” Maggie said.

He cocked a dark brow at her. “Me, nasty?”

“The nastiest bastard I’ve seen in a long time.”

“Let’s have some peace, you two,” Saint said, raising his hand.

“How do you spell that?” Brent said.

Saint frowned. Maggie was quite right. Brent was behaving outrageously. He said “I ran into Ira Butler this morning.” He hadn’t, but he wanted to see Brent’s reaction.

It was swift in coming. Brent stiffened in his chair, his eyes narrowed, and he said through his teeth, “What the hell was that bastard doing?”

“Search me,” Saint said, and rose. “Thanks for the coffee, Maggie. Felice should wake up feeling just fine. I’ll see myself out. Brent, I’ve some free advice for you—medical advice, of course. Stop drinking.”

“Go to hell.”

“A saint in hell? Impossible.”

Chauncey faced Eileen at the front door of the Butler house.

“I would like to see Mrs. Butler,” she said again, wondering why in the world the woman was blocking her way.

“Mrs. Butler is ill, Mrs. Saxton. The doctor won’t let her see anyone.”

“Ill? What is wrong with her?”

Eileen shrugged. “You’ll have to ask the doctor, Mrs. Saxton. All I know is that she keeps to her bed.”

“Is Mr. Butler here?”

“No, ma’am. I must go now, Mrs. Saxton.” And with that, Eileen closed the door in Chauncey’s face.

“Of all the bloody nerve,” Chauncey said as she returned to her carriage. “Let’s go home, Lucas. Mrs. Butler appears to be ill, and no one can see her.”

Lucas frowned over Chauncey’s head as he gently assisted her into the carriage. “Still the influenza, ma’am?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand it at all. She was supposed to have lunch with me today. She must be very ill indeed not to send me a note.”

“Well, you mustn’t worry, Miss Chauncey,” Lucas said. “Mr. Del wouldn’t like it.”

“I know. He thinks this is the very first baby to be born.”

But Chauncey didn’t forget about Byrony and mentioned it to Del that evening. When she finished, she asked, “What should we do?”

“Do?” he asked. “If she’s ill, I would imagine that Saint is seeing to her, Chauncey. Why are you so worried?”

Chauncey fretted with the fringe on her shawl—an item Del insisted she wear in the evenings to protect her from the nonexistent drafts in the house. “The Butlers’ servant, Eileen. She acted funny.”