Zeb followed. “Yes, but I am trying to leave—”
“Good God, Zeb, shut up. I don’t know how anyone chatters so much.”
He sounded hungover but not particularly malevolent. Could Dash have gone about things tactfully? “Look, did you talk to Dash last night?” Zeb blurted.
“Dash? Christ, no. Why would I do that?”
“He was looking for you,” Zeb said numbly.
“Well, don’t tell him where to find me. I can’t be expected to tolerate that bore before coffee.”
He lurched off. Zeb stared after him.
They hadn’t talked. Dash hadn’t accused him of being the ghost. He wasn’t going to reveal Zeb’s personal life, so Gideon’s job was safe. Reprieve bloomed through Zeb like the sun as he realised that all the fretting and fear had been pointless.
Well, not entirely pointless. It had led to that kiss. And if he hadn’t been able to make amends in action, at least he’d shown he wanted to, and perhaps, with that in mind, Gideon might be more open to just alittlebit of hope…
He cut that dream off as self-indulgence and tried to think through the revised situation. His urgent need was to find Dash and ensure he knew that Zeb’s suspicions had been wrong. And then he could keep his head down and last out the next couple of days, and everything would be absolutely fine.
Dash didn’t seem to be around. Zeb skittered around the house, checking the various shared rooms, but had had no lucktracking the man down by luncheon. There was no Elise, as usual, and no Dash either. Bram forked food into his mouth in grim silence. Hawley ate in a perfunctory sort of way and made flattering remarks to Jessamine. Gideon was stony-faced, braced for trouble.
Zeb smiled sunnily at him and asked Wynn, “Is Dash about? I wanted a word with him.”
“Ah, no, the poor fellow,” Wynn said composedly. “Unfortunately, he is suffering an attack of malaria. He contracted it in Africa and it returns periodically.”
“Really,” Hawley said without interest. “He looked revoltingly healthy last night.”
“I believe it comes on very quickly.”
“Ought he not have a doctor?” Zeb asked.
“How would we obtain one? I am not on the telephone, and I cannot send a man across the moor in the mist. He has a supply of quinine with him, and I understand that he will simply endure the period of fever, which will last several days. Yes, indeed, he will need to endure. He must be left strictly alone except for the man who will attend him. No visits—not even a mission of mercy from you, my dear.” He smiled at Jessamine.
That would be why Dash hadn’t spoken to Hawley, and blasted lucky timing it was too. Not that Zeb wanted him to suffer an attack of malaria, but if he had to, it might as well be useful. He flicked a reassuring glance at Gideon and thought his face had relaxed a fraction.
The meal went well enough, considering last night’scatastrophe. It was too much to hope that everyone was embarrassed about their behaviour; more likely, they were all gathering their strength for another round. Still, it was an oasis of comparative peace for Zeb’s nerves, and he took it as such.
He worked in his room that afternoon, sitting by the mist-shrouded windows beyond which the air writhed like spectres. He would have liked to seek Gideon out, but knew he should not. The physical pull between them was as strong as ever, and they’d slid back into intimacy with an ease for which Zeb was heart-shakingly grateful, but Gideon had made himself clear: he did not want to be mooning over a man hundreds of miles away when he was stuck here for a year.
Well, nor did Zeb. Where they differed was that Gideon seemed to think it was avoidable. Zeb would be mooning, like it or not.
And it wouldn’t be for a year either, because Wynn’s doctor had given him no more than a handful of months to live, a fact Zeb had temporarily forgotten and of which Gideon seemed to be unaware.
Hell’s teeth. Gideon was depending on this job, and he didn’t know his employer was dying.
Wynn had told Zeb about his health in confidence. Zeb had no right to break that, but presumably his cousin had taken Gideon on to put his affairs in order, so he would doubtless reveal the truth soon. And then, if Wynn’s doctor was right, Gideon would return to London in summer. They would be geographically close once more and perhaps, maybe, then…
Then, but not now. Now Zeb was going to respect Gideon’swishes and avoid doing anything that would destroy anyone’s life or livelihood, and if that meant sitting in his room with his mouth firmly shut until the mist lifted, that was what he’d do.
In that spirit, he got quite a lot of work done. He was feeling rather pleased with his newfound maturity until it was time to dress for dinner, and he realised his dinner clothes were crumpled in the suitcase, he hadn’t retrieved his shirt studs from wherever they’d flown, and his shirt was stained with spunk.
***
Dinner passed as well as could be expected. Bram rolled his eyes at Zeb’s daytime clothes, Wynn graciously accepted his apology for the informality, and Jessamine assured him she would have his laundry done. Elise was furiously silent. She’d probably wanted to leave too, and was demonstrating her displeasure by ignoring everything everyone said. Hawley held forth about the bohemian art world, telling stories that Zeb suspected were intended to be provocative. Bram stayed grimly silent, though his jaw twitched a few times as though he was clamping it shut.
By the time they’d reached the second course—a chicken casserole that seemed to be flavoured with marmalade—Zeb felt impelled to open his mouth, if only so Hawley would shut his. “Is there any sign of the weather lifting?” he asked. “I tried going outside this morning but it was awfully wet.”
“I fear not,” Wynn said. “We may expect another few days of this. Lackaday House has always been lonely, but it is when themist descends that we truly feel our isolation. The outside world is a thousand miles or a thousand years away, and those in this house are transported. Out of time. Yes: you are all quite out of time.”
