For a moment she lay unmoving, taking stock of her predicament. She had slept fitfully, and her body felt bruised, but at least her head didn’t ache quite so abominably. Her heart was another matter entirely. Determined to keep despair from overwhelming her, she rose slowly and made her toilet at the washstand. She had no brush, so she borrowed one that must be Deverill’s and tied her hair back with a piece of twine she purloined from his desk. His shaving mirror showed her that the right side of her forehead was sporting a large, purple-black bruise, but her appearance was the least of her concerns. Wondering if she was his prisoner, Antonia went to the door. To her surprise, she found it unlocked. And to her startlement, the old man who had milled her senseless last night stood in the corridor, hand raised as if preparing to knock. His bronzed, weathered face drew up in a scowl when he saw her. “I brought yer breakfast,” he muttered. Last night, Antonia remembered, Deverill had addressed her assaulter as Fletcher.
