about the room lighting the candles in their gilt holders.
An unusual reticence hung about the young man. This made Madeleine uncertain of what to do for the best, and she hesitated for long moments. In the end she sidled towards the tray of food, taking care to keep between Adamson and the open door.
There was meat for her—a rare luxury down at the Grève. A plateful of great thick slices stood beside an arrangement of bread and butter with a decanter of wine close by. A dish of raspberries and cream heavily dusted with sugar completed the happy picture. It seemed almost a pity to eat such a beautiful display, but Madeleine was more concerned with her empty stomach than with thoughts of art.
She was about to dig in when Adamson stopped her.
‘If you would not mind humouring me for a moment, mademoiselle...’
He gave a slight bow of painful formality and gestured towards the bed. Madeleine would have made a bolt for safety, but something in his expression stopped her. It was as cold as charity.
The open door was only a few feet away, but Madeleine resisted the temptation to dash out. She was not so much alarmed now as put out by his brisk approach to the matter.
‘What do you think I am?’ she bridled defensively.
A slight frown crossed Adamson’s handsome features. ‘I could fetch Mother,’ he said slowly. ‘I merely thought that, as a lady, you would welcome the privacy...’
His voice died away, but he seemed reluctant to go and fetch Mrs Adamson. Flickering candlelight shed soft shadows over his lean face. He was watching Madeleine with steady grey eyes, but as yet he made no attempt to draw nearer.
She looked at the tray of good food, then at the soft luxuriance of the bed. She tried not to look at Adamson. They said there was good money to be made from wickedness, but to think of such a thing with Adamson...when he was so restrained—so English...
Hesitantly, Madeleine’s hand went to the neck of her borrowed nightgown, but he stopped her hurriedly.
‘That will not be necessary, mademoiselle.’
Then it wasn’t some strange kind of excuse. Madeleine went to sit on the edge of the bed, as directed. Further instructions were not long in coming. Her host stepped forward to stand beside her.
‘Tip your head back towards the light, if you please.’
His hands were cool and moved with professional ease. Inspecting first her eyes, then her ears and finally her mouth, he made interested noises, but no proper conversation.
‘Who is your physician, mademoiselle?’
‘I haven’t got one,’ Madeleine snapped, feeling as though she were being checked over for a horse-sale.
Adamson made a small sound of disbelief, and Madeleine realised that she would need an excuse.
‘I—I came to Paris in search of kind relatives. They have run away from the unrest, and I’ve not had the chance to find friends in the city, sir, let alone a physician.’
As in any other city, people were always coming and going in Paris. Her story seemed to satisfy him.
He took a long time inspecting her mouth, probing about her teeth and gums with one gentle finger.
‘You have a fine set of teeth, mademoiselle. And all your own, too.’
It seemed a funny thing to say, but Madeleine let it pass. Whose teeth should she have?
Adamson moved away from her to the marble wash-stand at the far side of the room. Pouring a little water from the porcelain ewer into its basin, he rinsed his hands and dried them carefully.
Madeleine took this as a sign he had finished his examination. Heaving a sigh of relief, she scrambled towards the supper tray at the end of the bed.
‘One moment more, mademoiselle.’
His formal manner never faltered. The tone of his voice was always detached—distant—and Madeleine was intrigued. The English really were as cold and nerveless as everyone said. Here she was, alone in the company of a handsome gentleman and wearing very little, but he took no advantage.
There was something strange about the