On one side of the candle was a decanter of amber liquid. On the other was a single crystal goblet.

Jane slipped the dagger back under her pillow before the girl spotted it. She didn’t want it spreading through the household staff that she was the sort of person who’d pull a knife on a servant.

“Thank you. That is so kind,” she said. “What is it?”

The maid toddled over to a table and set down her tray. “Our Mr. Belgrave—he’s His Lordship’s steward, you know—he was worried you might have trouble sleeping, this being your first night in a strange place. So he sent up a splash of medicinal brandy. The baron swears by it. Always does the trick when he’s having trouble abed.”

The girl made an abrupt hiccup of amusement not unlike Lydia and Kitty’s chirpy “La!”

“Shall I bring you a glass?” she asked, already reaching for the brandy.

“Well, I don’t usually—”

“Oh, but tonight’s different, isn’t it? Hardly usual.” The maid half filled the goblet, then turned and started toward Jane with it. “Go on. Do yourself a kindness.” She didn’t stop coming until she was pushed up against the side of the bed with the glass practically thrust under Jane’s nose. “Just a little nip, and before long you’ll be having such sweet, sweet dreams.”

“But I—”

“Oh, go onnnnnnnnnnn.”

Jane took the goblet and sipped.

The maid smiled.

“Good, good. Now how about a nice big gulp to bring the Sandman calling?”

“Mmmmmmm,” Jane said.

She tried to hand the goblet back to the chambermaid, but the girl backed away, still grinning.

“Oh, you keep that for now. Drink your fill, and there’s plenty more over there if you want it.”

“Mmm mmm,” Jane said, nodding.

“Good night, then, Miss. And if there’s anything you need, just ring. Someone will get it up for you quick.”

“Mmm mmm!”

Jane waved as the maid slipped out the door. Then she leaned forward and spat the brandy back in the glass.

Not only did she not care for spirits in general, the one brandy she’d ever tried had struck her as particularly repulsive. To her surprise, the baron’s was even worse. He was well off enough to afford only the best, yet there was a gritty quality to the drink the girl had brought, and a faint aftertaste of licorice.

Jane got out of bed and walked the goblet across the room.

Now, where was I? she thought as she settled the glass on the tray beside the decanter. Oh, yes. Alone. Forever.

Something thumped directly above her head, and she whipped into the sumo stance so quickly she knocked the carafe of brandy into the fireplace. The glass shattered, there was a burst of here-and-gone flame, and a billow of black, spice-scented smoke plumed into the room.

Jane didn’t even notice. She was staring at the ceiling.

There was another thump, then a pause, then—so muffled they were little more than a drone, at first—words. Jane had to strain to make them out.

“Down, Mr. Smith! Smithy, down!” a man seemed to be saying. “Bad zombie! Bad, bad zombie!”

Jane assumed she wasn’t hearing correctly.

There was one more thump, then silence. Jane stood there, staring up, still in her stance, for a long, long time.

She heard nothing more from above, though eventually she did detect the creak of a floorboard just outside her door. She waited for the chambermaid to come barging back in with a glass of milk or a bed warmer or some other unwanted succor she’d insist on foisting on her. Yet no one entered, no one knocked.

The floorboard creaked again.

Jane picked up the nearest weapon—a mace she’d left propped up against the table—and slipped silently across the room. With a sudden jerk and a half-hearted battle cry, she yanked the door open and brought the mace up high.

Lt. Tindall threw up an arm to block her blow. “It’s just me! It’s just me!”

He was standing outside the door in full uniform.

“I do beg your pardon!” Jane lowered both her mace and her gaze, and she felt her cheeks flushing with a blush she prayed it was too dark for the handsome young officer to see. “I heard a noise and . . . oh, Lieutenant, I’m so sorry!”

“There is no need for you to apologize, Miss Bennet. The fault is entirely mine. If I hadn’t been dawdling out here in the hall like a fool . . .”

Jane peeped up quizzically.

“I couldn’t bring myself to knock, you see,” the lieutenant explained. “I knew it was most improper, coming to a young lady’s room like this. Yet still, I felt compelled to assure myself of your safety.” He looked down at Jane’s mace, and his expression soured. “I suppose I need not have bothered.”

“Yet you did,” Jane said. “And your consideration touches me deeply. I know that you put great stock in what is proper, so for you to come here, at night, on my account . . . I . . . I find it quite admirable, actually. It was a fine thing to do. The gesture of a true gentleman!”

This last ejaculation used up Jane’s meager store of forwardness, and she could say no more. Lt. Tindall seemed truly pleased to see her so overcome, however. The pinched look to his face faded away, and his eyes seemed to gleam brighter than the dim light could account for.

“That anyone would wish to extinguish such delicacy . . .,” he began. Then he, too, couldn’t go on, and he took his leave with a muttered “Good night” and a bow so deep it brought his head almost even with Jane’s knees.

Jane returned to her bed and lay down, though she knew she may as well be doing dand-baithaks for the Master. Sleep would be coming no time soon. Now she had the lieutenant to think of, too.

That morning, he’d made his disapproval of her plain, and the rebuke hurt her deeply. What salve it was—and what a puzzlement—to find that he harbored such concern for her. And such tenderness. He seemed so stern, so stiff, yet perhaps this was but the shield he wielded to protect a vulnerable, more sensitive self. With a little careful coaxing, maybe that gentler spirit could be drawn out from—

There was a soft, shushing sort of sound and what might have been the squeak of a hinge, and one of the shadows in the darkest part of the room began moving toward the bed. By the time Jane realized it was Lord Lumpley, she already had her dagger at his throat.

“Ah, you are awake, I see,” the baron croaked. “So very, very awake.”

“My Lord! I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was you!”

Jane scurried back to the bed, tossed her dirk on the pillow, and snatched up a dressing gown to cover the white chemise in which she slept.

As she pulled her nightgown on, Lord Lumpley averted his eyes. (A little. Until he thought Jane wasn’t looking.)

“Perhaps I did doze off,” Jane said. “I didn’t even notice you come in.”

“Oh, that shouldn’t surprise you. Netherfield has been in my family for years. I know where all the squeaky floorboards and rusty hinges are!”

“Still . . .” Jane peered into the gloom across the room. “What were you doing over there, if I may ask?”

“Of course, you may—and I pray you’ll forgive me the unpardonable liberty I was taking. It’s just that I misplaced my favorite . . .”

The baron must have been awfully tired himself, Jane thought, for he had to think a moment before dredging up the word he sought.

“. . . Bible,” he finally said. “I keep some of my most cherished volumes in this room, so—seeing as you were surely asleep—I thought I’d just pop in and look for it. Abominably overfamiliar, I know, but we barons are generally allowed our little eccentricities.”

When he wasn’t eyeing Jane, Lord Lumpley had been eyeing the room, as if searching for something—the Bible, Jane assumed. His gaze finally settled on the goblet the maid had left. It had tipped over when Jane knocked the carafe into the fire, and the pool of brandy around it sparkled dully in the firelight.

“I see that someone brought you my favorite sleeping draft,” the baron said. “Pity it spilled.”