A hot, salty fragrance wafted up, and her stomach roiled. Kippers and fried kidneys and a greenish mush. The footman reappeared and placed a plate under her nose. “I’m fine.” Dungeon? There was no denying any longer that she had a wee fever. “There is,” he said, and then, “Are you quite well, miss?” He contemplated her with a hawklike gaze. “There’s probably a dungeon under the house.” “Do I need to worry about the corruption of my staff while you are here, Miss Archer? Will I have mutiny on my hands when I return from London tomorrow?” “A socialist as well as a feminist,” he said. “Perhaps there should be more equality for the men as well, Your Grace.” That had been the wrong thing to say. But they were alone, and she had his ear. Like a tomcat enjoyed swatting at a mouse before he ate it.Ī mallet had begun pounding her temples, turning her skull into a mass of pulsing ache. “But then what do you make of the fact that men without property cannot vote, either?” “An easy mistake it seems to be forgotten frequently.” “They forgot to include women’s rights in the common good,” she said.
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