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stripped himself and washed. The nurse could monitor him for the next few hours and endure his male nonsense.
    Eliza fled to the kitchen and brewed herself another pot of strong hot tea. She would hide out below street level, making herself useful to Mrs. Quinn, Sue, and Sunny, who was fretful and bored and anxious to play.
    Work before pleasure. It would not harm the child to do a few lessons in bed. Eliza had discovered that Sue could not read, so she devised a game with words printed on cards. This kept both girls amused for a while, although Eliza’s eyelids drooped as the morning progressed.
    Mrs. Daughtry was nimble as a deer as she took the flights of stairs between the basement kitchen and Mr. Raeburn’s bedroom. Her comings and goings quite wore Eliza out, and after a light luncheon, Mrs. Daughtry herself ordered Eliza to take a nap along with the rest of the household.
    It was a shock to realize she had never gotten dressed—she was still in her father’s warm robe, her braids sadly unraveled. Goodness, such slovenliness was unlike her, but the events of the past day—less than a day, really—would be enough to challenge the most organized woman.
    Eliza trudged upstairs, hearing Mrs. Daughtry’s low tones across the hall as she evidently read something to Mr. Raeburn.
He
would not be allowed to nap—not until the middle of the night could he find any comfort on his pillow. Dr. Samuelson had insisted on twenty-four hours of wakefulness to monitor his concussion. That would teach the man to be more prudent—no more inebriated brangles unless he wanted to find himself in the same pickle.
    As Eliza’s lids fluttered shut, she remembered she hadn’t telephoned Oliver to get extra staff or check on the progress of hiring a real governess. She would. Later.
    ***
    An insistent hand was shaking her shoulder. “Miss Lawrence. Wake up, please.”
    Eliza struggled through the fog. She was having the loveliest dream, sitting at a neat desk beneath a sunny window, surrounded by ledgers filled with columns of numbers that did not need reconciling. Everything was perfect, bright and fresh, the paper white, the ink black, the wood grain on the desk gleaming and scented with lemon polish.
    â€œI do beg your pardon, Miss Lawrence, but it’s time for me to go home. Past time, really.”
    Eliza sat bolt upright. Her room was in near darkness, a spill of light coming from the electric sconces in the hallway. “I beg
your
pardon, Mrs. Daughtry! How long have I been asleep?”
    â€œIt’s just gone on seven o’clock. I’ve brought you a cup of tea and some bread and butter. You’ll be happy to know things are much improved downstairs, and if you are hungry later, Mrs. Quinn is up and about. Nothing I said could stop her. Fortunately, she’s not been as affected as Sue or little Domenica. What a delightful, intelligent child, by the way. A touch impertinent, but then I like children who have spirit.”
    She would love Jonathan Hurst, Eliza thought.
    â€œThey’ve all had their dinner down below, and the girls are almost asleep already. Mrs. Quinn assures me she can take care of anything they require. So, it’s just Mr. Raeburn that needs tending to. He should be able to be left to sleep soundly around midnight.” The nurse cleared her throat. “What an unusual young gentleman.”
    Wasn’t he just?
    â€œHe drew a lovely picture of me,” Mrs. Daughtry confided. “I’m going to take it home and have it framed for Mr. Daughtry’s dressing room.”
    Good heavens. Mrs. Daughtry wasn’t
undressed
in it, was she? Eliza would put nothing past Nicholas Raeburn.
    â€œI saw the sketch he began of you,” the woman continued. “He’s a very talented artist.”
    Another female conquest for her employer, although the plump and motherly Mrs. Daughtry was surely not his type.
    â€œIs he? I’ve seen