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  “Men!” she muttered with agitation, then grasped the lip of the barrel to get back to her feet. Once there, she saw that while the mug was still in place, the bottle of emetic was gone. She glanced around briefly, but it was nowhere on the floor. Either it had rolled into the shadows as the lid had done, or the male servant had absconded with it.

  Her gaze slid to the door leading to the alley, and she took a step toward it, then changed her mind. The fellow was probably on a break and thought he had stolen her private stock. He was doubtlessly gulping the sweet-smelling liquid down at that very moment. She hoped it was a big swallow, for one was all he would probably take, and Prudence rather hoped he downed enough of it to end up retching for hours. It served him right for touching her behind!

  Smiling to herself at that thought, she dipped the already-doctored mug into the ale barrel, then turned back to the door to the gaming room. Cracking it open, she saw that Stockton and Setterington had moved away. In fact, neither man was in sight.

  A sudden excited outburst at the center table drew her attention. One man was laughing happily as he scooped up a rather large pile of money. Everyone else at the table looked decidedly unhappy, though they were doing their best to hide it as they slapped the man on the back in congratulations.

  “Here!” the winner suddenly called out to a nearby servant. “A round of ale for everyone in the club to celebrate. On me!”

  Pru’s eyes widened as every single servant in the club made a sudden exodus toward the kitchen doors. Deciding that it was time to move now or risk being discovered as an impostor, Prudence scampered determinedly out of the kitchens and straight to the table where earlier she had spotted her father playing cards.

  Her eyes darted nervously about the room with every step she took, watching warily for Stockton, or for anyone who might intercept her and steal her precious drink as Setterington had done. She was nearly at the table where her father was playing cards when she spotted him. The gray-haired fellow who had been seated at the card table next to her father had apparently left, and Stockton sat there now.

  Prudence nearly turned on her heel and fled for the kitchens again, but then she caught herself and forced her feet to continue. Stockton would not notice her, she assured herself firmly. She would keep her face averted, approaching with her front to her father and her back to Stockton. She would slide in, set the drink down, and leave. The man would see only the back of her head, and her father wouldn’t even glance at her. Members of nobility never looked at servants, or if they did, they rarely saw them. And her father was no exception. Dear God, please don’t let Father be the exception, she prayed as she turned to slide between the two men, her back to Stockton as she set the drink at her father’s elbow. He did not glance up from his cards, at least no further than to notice the drink and cluck his tongue in annoyance.

  “I didn’t order that,” she heard him grumble as she quickly started to slide out from between the two chairs, but she kept on going, hoping that if she left it there, he would drink it anyway.

  “Girl!”

  “’Tis all right, Prescott,” she heard Stockton say. “I shall drink it.”

  It made Prudence pause. Swinging back in alarm, she saw the establishment’s owner pick up the mug and swallow a good quantity of its contents. She didn’t say anything—at least nothing comprehensible. Instead there came more of a squawking sound that slid from her lips as he lowered the drink and she saw that more than half of it was gone. It was enough to draw Stockton’s gaze to her over the rim of the mug he was again lifting to his lips. Prudence nearly stopped him, but realized that there was really no use. He had already downed enough of it that there was no way he could avoid reacting. Especially since she had put in such a large amount.

  Oh, he was not going to be happy about this at all, Prudence thought faintly, and took an unconscious step backward. She was paling and knew it. She could feel the blood drain from her face as the man’s eyes narrowed on her. She started to back away faster, wincing when his eyes suddenly widened in recognition. She gave a gulp as he excused himself from the game and started to his feet, and she whirled away, heading for the kitchens at a dead run.

  She had reached the kitchens when he caught up to her. In fact, she had pushed her way past the half-dozen servants around the ale barrel and nearly made it out the back door into the alley, but he caught her hand and drew her to a halt. Prudence whirled, mouth open to demand he release her, but he was already starting for his office, pulling her behind him. Catching sight of the curious servants, she decided not to cause a scene and allowed him to drag her where he would.

  Tugging her inside the small, cramped office he had taken her to the last time, he released her abruptly, slammed the door, and leaned his back on it to glare at her. “Why are you back? To work? Surely your family’s situation has not deteriorated to the point that you have actually been forced to seek a paid position?”

  It was the way he said the word work that suddenly calmed Prudence. It sounded sarcastic and bitter on his lips, reminding her of the snubs and insults he had suffered for having to make a living in the world—a torment she would not wish on anyone. Her annoyance at his drinking the potion meant for her father was briefly forgotten and she said gently, “There is nothing wrong with earning your living.”

  He gave a disbelieving laugh. “Certainly there is. Just ask anyone and they will inform you of it. Every one of them thinks I am beneath them because—”

  “I am not everyone,” Prudence interrupted, bringing what she was sure would have been a long rant to an end.

  He eyed her speculatively for a moment, then said, “I personally choose my workers. You are not employed here. You also made no attempt to talk to your father, which was the reason you gave for wishing to get inside Ballard’s. You did not say a word to him when you had the chance. So, my lady, why are you here?”

  “I did not come here this evening to talk to my father,” Prudence answered evasively.

  He stared at her for another moment, then said, “Perhaps you came here to see me?”

  Startled by that suggestion, Prudence was slow to notice that he was moving forward. Backing nervously away, she shook her head. “Nay, I—”

  Her words died as he slid his palm gently against her cheek. His voice was husky when he spoke. “Nay?”

  Prudence started to shake her head, but paused and swallowed when his other hand trailed lightly down her arm. It was as if one of her fantasies had come to life. Not that she had ever fantasized this situation, but the look in his eyes was quite the same. A little more heated than adoring, perhaps, but . . .

  “I am sorry for that unfortunate incident the other night. I would never have allowed Plunkett to enter had I realized—” He cut himself off and grimaced when Prudence suddenly flushed bright pink at the reminder of her humiliation.

  “I am sorry,” he repeated. Then she watched wide-eyed as his lips lowered toward hers. Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes slipped closed as she waited for the soft caress of his mouth on hers . . . and waited. And waited.

  He had never taken this long finding her lips in her fantasies. Frowning, she popped her eyes open. His face was a mere few inches away, but it was no longer moving closer. He appeared to be almost frozen, and he had the oddest expression on his face.

  “Is there something amiss?” she asked with concern.

  Lord Stockton heaved. Recalling that he had downed her father’s dosed ale, Prudence watched in horror as Stephen clapped his mouth closed. His cheeks bulged and his eyes were huge in his face as he whirled away. After a brief but frantic glance around, he rushed for the window.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured as he threw it open. The next moment he was hanging over the ledge, being ill.

  Biting her lip, Prudence shifted on her feet, unsure what to do; then she moved forward and patted his back rather limply. He straightened.

  “Feeling better?” she asked hopefully.

  He started to nod
, then whirled back to hang out the window again.

  “I guess not,” Prudence muttered, wondering how to help. Were she home and he Charlotte, she would have wiped her younger sister’s forehead with damp cloths and murmured soothing sounds. Her gaze moved to the office door, and she had an idea. She left him and hurried out to the kitchens. There had to be water and cloths somewhere. This was a kitchen.

  Unfortunately it was a rather large kitchen, and empty again, so that there was no one to direct her to find what she sought. She searched for several minutes before coming up with a cloth clean enough to suit her, then wasted several more looking for water. She was wringing out the damp cloth when she became aware of the assorted sounds coming from the next room.

  There came a rather loud screeching of chair legs on the wooden floor and the panicky shuffling of feet, and it drew her to the door. Cracking it open, she peered out curiously. Nearly every single man in the club was on his feet, darting madly about—some rushing this way, some rushing that. Prudence gaped at the madness briefly; then a noise behind her made her turn. Lord Stockton stood leaning weakly against the doorway to his office.

  “Are you feeling any better?” Pru asked with concern.

  “I thought you left” was his answer, and there was no mistaking his relief that she hadn’t. Prudence smiled softly and held up the bit of wadded material in her hand.

  “Nay. I thought to find you a damp cloth,” she explained, then glanced toward the door as the sounds in the next room changed to guttural noises.

  “What the devil is that?”

  Prudence stepped aside as Stephen moved to the door and tugged it open. She didn’t bother to look out. She had finally deduced what the mad behavior she had been watching was about. The sound she was now listening to was the almost symphonic noise of nearly a hundred men being sick. The club was full of vomiting patrons.

  “Dear God!” Stephen said faintly, then shouted, “Stop, man! What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know, milord,” someone answered—probably a servant, Prudence decided, since the voice sounded hale and heave-free. “Everyone is tossing their innards out. Bad batch of ale’d be my guess.”

  “Well, find out, damn it!” Stephen said in what was probably supposed to be a roar, but came out too weak to be considered one. Prudence bit her lip guiltily as she watched him sag against the doorjamb. Then he turned and gestured for her to follow him as he staggered back toward his office.

  Pru hesitated, her gaze going to the door to the gaming room, then to the barrel of ale. She understood what had happened, of course. The bottle of emetic had not fallen on the floor or been stolen by the male servant who slapped her behind. It must have fallen into the ale, probably knocked there when she crashed against the barrel. She was what had happened to Ballard’s patrons. Fortunately Lord Stockton didn’t appear to be aware of that. He was putting it down to a bad batch of ale. She was relatively safe if she stayed for a bit. Which she wanted to do—purely to be of assistance while he felt so poorly, she assured herself. After all, she was the reason he was sick. She really should do what she could for him.

  Having reasoned the matter out thusly, Prudence gave up her position by the door to the gaming room and followed Lord Stockton. He was slumped in the chair behind his desk when she stepped into the office. Moving to his side, she peered down at his closed eyes, then gently began to mop his face with her now warm, but still damp cloth, cooing soothing noises as she did.

  His eyes flickered briefly at her touch, but they remained closed, his face slowly relaxing. She was beginning to think he had fallen asleep when he suddenly caught her hand in his. Prudence found herself blushing when his eyes opened and peered into hers.

  She tugged her hand free after a moment of silence had passed, then turned away. “I shall fetch you a drink.”

  “Not from out there.”

  Pru hesitated at the door and glanced uncertainly back to see him gesture to the cupboard along the wall. “There is whiskey in there.”

  After a moment, Prudence nodded and moved to the cupboard. Opening the door she found a bottle of whiskey and two glasses inside. She took one and filled it, then carried it carefully back to the desk.

  “Thank you.” Stephen accepted the glass, took a mouthful of the golden liquid, swished it around, then stood and moved to the window to spit. He did that twice more before allowing himself to swallow the next drink. Then he glanced at Prudence and smiled.

  “Thank you.” His voice was raspy, but still soft as he raised a hand to caress her cheek. “I appreciate your care.”

  Prudence felt her face flush. She was not sure herself whether it was with pleasure at his touch, or with embarrassment at being praised when she had been the cause of his ailment. She did know she was disappointed when his hand slipped away from her cheek and he turned to pick up his glass again. He had just taken another swig when a knock sounded at the door.

  Swallowing, he set the glass back on his desk, then moved around her to shield Prudence from view. “Enter,” he called out.

  Prudence heard the door open; then a male voice announced, “This was found floating in the ale barrel.”

  By lifting up on her tiptoes, Pru was able to just see over Stephen’s shoulder and glimpse what was held out by the man in the doorway. Her bottle, she saw with a wince. The man added, “It looks a deliberate attempt to poison our patrons.”

  “What?” There was no mistaking the shock in Stephen’s voice. “Why would anyone wish to poison our—”

  Prudence backed away as he suddenly spun to glare at her. Forcing a smile, she exclaimed, “I am sure whomever it was had no intention of poisoning your patrons. They most likely meant to—”

  “To poison one particular patron?” he asked coldly. “Such as your father, perhaps? That mug I drank from was meant for him, after all. You poisoned my ale!”

  He moved toward her, his repressed fury evident, and Prudence did the only thing she could think to do; she made a run for it.

  “Do not let her get away!” she heard Stephen shout, but at that point the devil himself couldn’t have caught her. Propelled by fear, Pru was running so fast she wasn’t even sure her feet were touching the floor. She was out the door and racing along the alley to the front of the building in a trice. Jamison, bless his heart, either heard the rapid tap-tap of her feet, or saw her approaching. Whatever the case, he was off his seat and had the door open when she got there.

  “Get us away from here, Jamison. Quickly!” she cried as she lunged into the carriage. The door was closed behind her before she even landed on the seat.

  “What happened? Ye haven’t lost me my job, have ye?” Lizzy cried as the carriage shifted under the weight of Jamison remounting the driver’s bench.

  Prudence grabbed at the seat and waited until the carriage had lurched forward before answering.

  Chapter Four

  Poisoning the punch, are we?”

  Dropping the dipper in the punch bowl, Prudence whirled to find the owner of that silky voice, eyes wary as she met Lord Stockton’s mocking gaze. She hadn’t seen the man since the night of the little accident at his club. Well, all right, the night she had poisoned his patrons. Which had been two nights ago. Pru had considered sending him a letter of apology explaining the situation, but had decided against it, thinking that such an apology really should be given in person. But here was her chance, and she wished she had sent him a letter. Or that she had refused to allow Eleanore to talk her into coming tonight. Forcing Prudence to attend her mother’s ball had been Ellie’s attempt to cheer her friend and distract her from the Prescott family’s mounting bills.

  Prudence was neither distracted nor cheered. She was terribly conscious of the fact that she was wearing a borrowed gown, and nothing could make her forget the subtle snubs she was receiving, or the fact that no one had asked her to dance.

  “You have yet to answer my question,” Stephen said, drawing her attention back to him. “Are you poisonin
g the punch? I ask only because I should like to know if you are out to torment all of the ton for your father’s misdeeds, or are concentrating solely on ruining me.”

  Catching the startled glances being cast at them and the way people around the punch bowl were suddenly setting down their empty glasses, Prudence forced a stiff chuckle. “Oh, my lord, you are such a wit. But you should not jest like that or people might truly believe that I would do such a thing.”

  “The ones who suffered so foully at my club the other night, thanks to your poisoning, would have no trouble believing—”

  Prudence cut him off by grabbing his arm, jerking him away from the table of refreshments and toward the balcony doors. She had no delusions about her strength. The only reason she managed to drag him out of the ballroom was because he let her. Since it suited her needs at the moment, she could only be grateful for his docility.

  Prudence pulled him outside, shivered as the winter chill struck her skin, then led him along the wall of glass doors until they reached those leading into Lord Kindersley’s office. Ellie’s father didn’t like anyone in there, but it was too cold to stay outside, and she needed privacy for this confrontation.

  “So, what plans have you for tonight?” Stephen asked as she entered the gloomy room and turned to face him. “You have already both started a riot and poisoned a large crowd. Perhaps you intend to start a fire to roast all of—”

  “Please stop,” Prudence said wearily. She was not surprised by his irritation, but with all the troubles plaguing her, did not have the energy to fend it off. “I did not intend to start that riot. I was attempting to protect one of your serving women from a rather nasty client of yours.”

  “I know.” Stockton’s mouth was a bit tight, but some of the tension had left his body.

  Prudence felt some relief at that. She was even happier to see the last of that tension leave him as she explained, “Neither did I intend to poison your patrons. The bottle of emetic must have fallen into the barrel while I was searching about for the lid on the floor. I did not realize that it had or I would have warned someone . . . probably,” she added, because she wasn’t at all sure she would have. She had been so determined to see her father out of Ballard’s. She still was, for that matter.