“A great many people think the world is flat, too,” he muttered, tossing the note back on the tray.
“But the earth is flat, sir. Why, one has only to use one’s eyes to know that.”
Simon was in no condition for a debate on astronomy with a follower of the flat-earth movement. “Just send it back, Morgan.”
But even as he spoke, he inhaled the scent of bacon again, and he realized to his surprise that, despite the pain in his head and the unsteadiness of his stomach, he was actually hungry. “On second thought,” he said as his valet turned away, “put it on the table over there and bring me my dressing robe.”
A short time later, and much to his own surprise, Simon had wolfed down every crumb of food on the tray. As Lady Stratham had predicted, he was less enthusiastic about the tomato juice, for it had the sharp, unmistakable tang of liquor in it, and liquor was something he’d had far too much of the night before. But his mouth was dry as dust, and he ended up drinking all of it, as well as the entire pot of coffee.Afterward, he had a hot bath and a shave, and by the time he was dressed, he felt considerably better.
Deciding that he might be able to get some work done today after all, he ventured downstairs, and as he passed Lady Stratham’s office on the way to his own, he found her at her desk opening letters. “Slaving away, I see,” he remarked, pausing in the corridor.
At the sound of his voice, she looked up. “He lives!”
Simon gave a little bow. “To paraphrase Mark Twain, the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
That made her smile. “Having some breakfast helped, I trust?”
“It did, yes.” He paused, feeling strangely awkward and a little bit guilty that he’d been so quick to judge her motives. “Thank you. Though I confess, I almost sent it back, fearing you might be trying to poison me.”
“I would never do such a thing. I might think it,” she added, her smile widening, “but I would never do it. I like living too much to risk being hanged. You’re safe as houses.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“And even if that weren’t the case,” she added, “I’d never do away with someone while simultaneously attempting to broker a truce with him. That would be blatant hypocrisy and quite dishonorable.”
Somehow, Simon felt that attempted poisoning might be a greater breach of honor than hypocrisy, but her remark was sufficiently surprising that he didn’t bother to say so. “Was that your intent?” he asked instead. “To broker a truce between us?”
“Of course! I thought the flowers made that quite obvious.”
“The flowers?”
She groaned. “Don’t tell me they didn’t send the vase up with the breakfast?”
“There was a bud vase of flowers on the tray,” he said. “Purple, spiky things. But what do flowers have to do with anything?”
“Not just any flowers. Hyacinths.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t realize they werehyacinths,” he said with a nod, still utterly at sea. “That explains everything.”
She sighed, shaking her head, demonstrating that his attempt to look ho-hum and wise hadn’t fooled her for a second. “I begin to see why you find winter flower arrangements in springtime acceptable,” she said sadly. “In the language of flowers, hyacinths signify a new beginning.”
He stared at her askance. “Flowers have a language?”
“Of course! If you wish to express your feelings to someone, you send them flowers that have the meaning you wish to convey.” She laughed at his doubtful expression, and despite the fact that their conversation about flower arrangements was the rocky start that had led to the present need for a truce, he couldn’t help laughing, too.
“Why, Lord Calderon,” she exclaimed, bolting up from her chair with a suddenness that startled him. “What is that?”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked as she circled her desk and walked toward where he stood. “What is what?”
“You’re…” She paused, halting before him and squinting as she leaned closer, studying his face as if confounded. “You’re laughing.”
“I have been known to laugh on occasion.”
“Not in my hearing. My goodness.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “The miracles that can result from giving a man a hearty breakfast and a little hair of the dog that bit him.”
“Hair of the dog?”
“Frank’s special tomato-juice cocktail.”
