He closed his eyes, and then Maggie was there again, dribbling water into his dry mouth and prodding him so that he hurt and wanted to push her away and let himself fall back into sleep. But he was not so far gone that he didn’t comprehend the danger. If he didn’t wake up now, he might not ever wake up. So, painful as it might be, he swam up through the murky layers of aching discomfort and crushing fatigue and opened his eyes.
“There you are,” she said. “Open your mouth and take this.”
Like a baby bird, he obeyed. She gave him a spoonful of something that tasted awful but which he’d had before. He knew it would ease his fever and the throbbing in his side.
“Now have a bite of this.”
He bit down on the soft, juicy orange. The tart flavor was a surprise, and after a few slices, he was able to keep his eyes open.
“Thought you’d like that,” she said.
“Had I known you could play the role of nursemaid so well, I might have suggested we play patient and naughty nursemaid back when I had you in my bed.”
Her face clouded over. Clearly, she didn’t like thinking back to those early days of their marriage. “I don’t have to help you, you know. I could just leave you to wither away.”
“You won’t do that until you get the information Baron wants.” Maggie was a Royal Saboteur. Ambrose still couldn’t believe it.
“We have agents in the field relying on your information. I need to send him a missive. Do you have the strength to give me a report?”
He hated how cold and formal she was behaving. He wanted to topple the wall between them and see the heat and fire in her eyes once again. But he’d helped her build that wall, and he doubted he’d be able to tear it down on his own.
“I have the strength,” he said. He resented the implication that he was some sort of weakling, even if it might be factually accurate at present.
“One moment,” she said. Ambrose watched as she moved across the room and opened her large reticule. No doubt whatsoever she had a book inside. She was never without a book. She withdrew a small notebook and then a stub of a pencil, drew a chair alongside the bed, and sat. For a tall woman, she moved very gracefully. She pushed her spectacles higher on her nose and opened the notebook. “Go on then.”
Ambrose sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The pain from the knife wound—she’d been accurate there—was fading a bit and he could form coherent thoughts once again. “I was at the old pile. As you know, it’s in Warrington.”
“Not far from Liverpool, yes.” She scribbled something on the notepad. “I suppose that’s why Baron sent you. You were close to Liverpool, but didn’t that also mean you might be recognized?”
Ambrose ran a hand over his beard, which had filled in rather nicely over the past couple of months. “I know how to wear a disguise. Besides, the men I mingled with don’t have any contact with theton. They probably don’t know what a viscount is, much less care. My disguise was more for the factory owners, but I needn’t have bothered. They don’t even give their workers a second glance. If they come to the factory at all.”
“You were sent to infiltrate the union.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “It’s not a union. I told Baron this already. The workers aren’t that organized. When I arrived and signed on for a job at the factory—”
Maggie dropped the pencil. “Sorry.”
Ambrose waited until she bent and retrieved it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Youworkedat a factory?”
He lifted a hand and modeled his calluses then turned his arm and showed her the rather bad burn on the underside. “I’m lucky I didn’t lose it. I worked in an iron factory owned by one Horace Vanderville. Horrible conditions. Dark and hot. Twelve-hour days. Some days no break to eat. I was there a month and saw at least three men maimed. Two of them died.” He paused. “I say men, but one was a child, really. Couldn’t have been more than twelve. The others weren’t yet twenty. I didn’t make enough to feed myself, much less anyone else.”
Her gaze dropped to his chest, which he knew looked thin. He was not averse to hard work. He’d done his share at Holyoake Hall, but working at the Vanderville Iron Factory had all but killed him. He might have afforded more food and better lodgings, but he had to fully embed with the men in order to become one of them.
“I find it very difficult to picture you working in a factory.”
“And I find it difficult to picture you as a Royal Saboteur, but I suppose we’ve both been busy these past few years.”
“Touché.” She tapped her pencil on the notebook. “Go on. You signed on and took a job at the factory. But you said there was no union. I was told the union wanted better working conditions and were threatening a strike.”
“They did strike after the child of one of the workers was killed in an accident. He had hot water poured over his body and basically boiled alive. I wasn’t there for that. By the time Baron sent me, the men had gone back to work. It was that or starve.”
“But you heard dark rumblings of revenge?”
“Yes. When I first arrived, there was talk of revenge. When Vanderville was in Liverpool, he traveled with an armed escort.” Ambrose blew out a breath. “Protection against his own workers. A few of the men had some education. They proposed going to Parliament or the prime minister to ask for better working conditions as going to Vanderville had gotten them nowhere.”
“What about the strike? That had no effect?”
