A Soul of Steel by Carole Nelson Douglas

into my skirts and proceed to purr and rhythmically dig his claws against the grain of my plaid wool skirt. I drove my fingers into his long hair as into a muff and finally felt warmth tinge my fingertips as shock eased into a kind of stupor.
    And so I was when Godfrey entered the chamber an hour and a half later.
    “All well?” asked he.
    “He has not stirred,” said I, picking up the sleeping cat and slipping from the room.
    If Godfrey noticed anything odd in my manner and gazed after me, I did not look back to see.
     

 
    Chapter Seven
    DELIBERATE DEATH
     
    “How did your vigil go last night?” Godfrey asked in his most persuasive baritone at breakfast the next morning. He lifted a small crystal jar. “Would you care for some marmalade!”
    “Quite peacefully,” I replied, taking the marmalade jar. “And how are the sausages this morning?”
    “Excellent,” said he. “So there was no disturbance to your patient?”
    “None at all. Slept like a lamb. Would you care for some ham?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “And did the patient have an episode during your watch?”
    Godfrey shook his dark, handsome head almost regretfully. “Nothing. He did not even call out your name.”
    “How disappointing. Is there any honey? Ah, thank you. And, Irene... did she mention anything significant occurring when she returned from her time on duty?”
    Godfrey paused in dosing a croissant with a dollop of pale, sweet country butter. “Ah... it was rather late. We had other matters than your mysterious gentleman to, er, discuss.”
    “Truly? I cannot imagine Irene being distracted from a mystery so near at hand for anything.”
    Godfrey shrugged with masculine modesty. “She was fatigued, no doubt, from her late hours sitting up with the sick man.”
    “And she did not report any delirious revelations?”
    “She reported delirium, but no revelations,” Godfrey said at last with the hesitant air of a man conveying the exact truth in an utterly different context from the one under discussion.
    “Then it has been a most unproductive night,” I summed up, biting as daintily as possible into my condiment-laden roll. I dislike the taste of French baking, which is much overrated by the easily led, and have been forced to resort to disguising the dough with sweets.
    “I would not say that the night was unproductive.” Irene swept into the small breakfast chamber in a blonde lace combing mantle, her russet hair rippling over her shoulders.
    It occurs to me that during the years I have recorded Irene’s adventures, or rather, recorded my adventures while living with Irene, that my descriptions of her coloring have varied. For some annoying reason, the exact shade of Irene’s hair, even her eye color, shifts with the hour of the day, the hues of her clothing and the range of her moods.
    Beyond being a gifted actress, she is a human chameleon upon whom the light plays tricks, sometimes painting her hair auburn, at other times brunette. Her eyes have that fascinating tiger’s-eye quality of mellowing to orbs of honeyed amber and darkening to coffee-dark brown when her pupils swell with agitation.
    That gay, green June morning in Neuilly Irene was nevertheless a walking palette of autumnal hues, as warming as well-steeped tea.
    She accepted the coffee cup that Sophie instantly brought her and poured several dollops of clotted cream into it, carelessly stirring the mess with the nearest utensil, a fork. Could the Beauties of Europe watch Irene eat whatever pleased her, there would be more than ground glass in her rouge pot, as happened once in the dressing rooms of La Scala.
    “Well, my dears.” Irene looked brightly from Godfrey to me, unaware of the current day’s aura. “And have you been comparing notes on our patient’s progress? What do you think?”
    “That you hardly look as if you had sat up half the night,” I answered tartly.
    I had slept barely at all after the strain of fleeing the sickroom and then toying with