This was a farce, a nightmare, a joke. It must be. Mac scooted off the other side of the settee, ears crimson, trying to smooth her hopelessly creased gown. Liam turned with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Caroline,” he began.
Caroline had gone from flushed to white. Her little fists were clenched as she pushed away from her aunt’s offered comfort.
“You… you scoundrel,” she said with quiet, astonishing ferocity. And then she whirled and swept out the door, Mrs. Hunter at her heels.
The resulting quiet lasted all of an instant before it was broken by yet another intruder. The waiter who’d shown Liam to the room poked his head cautiously through the door and walked in, bearing a silver tray with a chilled bottle of wine.
“Your wine, madam,” he said.
“Get out,” Liam growled.
The man set the tray down on the table and obeyed with alacrity. Liam strode to the table and picked up the bottle. It was already uncorked. He splashed a liberal portion into one of the wineglasses.
He hardly heard Mac come up behind him. Her hand was shaking as she reached for the bottle and a glass and followed his example.
He lifted his glass to her. “Congratulations, Mac.”
But she gave him no answer. No smile of victory, of triumph complete. He tilted the glass to his mouth and prepared to drown himself in the contents.
The first taste told him something was wrong. The second assured him of it. He spat into the glass and was slamming it down when he saw Mac preparing to drink.
The wine never made it to her lips. Most of it soaked the front of her bodice as he swatted the glass away, and the rest stained the fine imported carpet at her feet.
She stared at him in shock. Genuine shock, not in the least feigned. She hadn’t known the wine was drugged.
With frigid, bitter calm he handed her an embroidered napkin.
“Get yourself cleaned up, Mac,” he commanded. “It’s over.”
* * *
Over.
His brain was pounding to that infernal word, just as it had all night. It was limned in blinding light that burned through his lids. He opened his eyes a crack, winced, and tried to roll over. The solid bulk of an Irish wolfhound trapped him in place.
“Norton,” he groaned. “Get off the bed.”
A tail thumped against his arm with enough impact to encourage a more rapid recovery. His mouth tasted abominable. He couldn’t remember a bloody thing since last night… had it been last night? Since Caroline had walked in on him and Mac.
Liam groaned again and cursed into his whiskey-scented pillow.
“Mr. O’Shea?”
Even Chen’s soft speech rang like a struck anvil in Liam’s ears. He propped himself up on his elbows and glared at his servant. “What time is it?”
Chen bowed and set the tray with tea and morning paper on the table beside the bed. “Three o’clock in the afternoon, Mr. O’Shea.”
Liam massaged the skin between his brows. Hell, he’d lost most of a day. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on last night at the Poodle Dog—everything but his shoes, which Chen had probably removed.
“When did I come in?” he asked.
“Just before dawn.” Chen lifted his sleeve and poured a cup of hot tea. The smell of it—green tea with herbs, which Chen insisted was good for a hangover—was already beginning to clear Liam’s head.
Before dawn. It was starting to come back. The fiasco at the Poodle Dog, the way he’d numbly flagged down a hack for Mac and watched her drive off, his determination to go in exactly the opposite direction. A night of riotous dissipation along the Barbary Coast—the details of the latter remained blessedly obscure. It’d been some time since he’d gone down to the dives and hells of the Coast.
Chen cleared his throat discreetly. Mr. O’Shea, you asked me when you first returned to inquire as to Miss Gresham’s well being.”
Liam didn’t remember, but he was glad he’d had that much sense. He paused to fight off a wave of dizziness and threw his legs over the bed. “And?”