Chapter Ten
The first thing Primrose did when she returned to the house was check on Rhodes. He was lying on his bed, dressed in shirt and breeches, a wet cloth laid over his eyes. His valet, Monsieur Benoît, was reading aloud to him.
The man broke off his reading, stood, and bowed to her. “Lady Primrose.” He was a Frenchman, young and olive-skinned and dark-eyed, his English lightly accented.
“How is he?” she asked.
“Much better,” Rhodes said, and the valet grimaced slightly, which Primrose took to mean, Not really.
She advanced into the room. “May I see?”
The valet put aside the book. He removed the cloth and placed it to soak in a bowl beside the bed.
Primrose understood immediately why the man had grimaced. Rhodes’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot. “Do they still itch?” she aske
