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So she did the only practical thing she could think of: she went to the kitchen.

She heated milk with a splash of brandy, and in another pot, she made herself a cup of chocolate, remembering the night they had spent teasing each other on this very spot.

With a smile, she returned upstairs, both cups in hand.

She entered the study without knocking, though opening the door with her hands full required a bit of maneuvering.

Sutton sat behind his desk in his shirtsleeves, exactly as she had imagined. His coat hung over the back of the chair, his cravat was gone, his collar open at the throat, and a candle burned on either side of the great ledger spread before him. Papers lay in drifts around it.

He looked up, and his eyes went wide.

"Temperance." His voice came out a shade rougher than usual. He cleared his throat. "Why are you here?"

"I could not sleep." She lifted both cups a little, as proof. "I decided to make something warm to drink, and when I saw the light under your door, I thought you might want something, too."

She crossed the room and set the drinks on the corner of the desk, the only clear space.

He looked at the cup nearest him, then at her, and his mouth lifted in a half-smile. "A posset?"

"A posset," she echoed.

He took the cup in both hands and sipped. She did the same.

"Mmm. Just what I needed," his voice rumbled.

Warmth bloomed in her chest, absurdly out of proportion to a sip of warm chocolate.

She set the cup down and rounded the desk, coming up to stand at his shoulder, one hand resting on the back of his chair. She peered at the ledger in front of him. "Why are you not sleeping?"

Sutton set down his cup. His gaze went to the ledger. "I have been looking through the accounts to keep my mind busy, and I found an error I cannot quite pin down. But I cannot concentrate. My mind keeps returning to the accident."

She looked at his troubled face and gently ran her knuckles over his bearded chin, liking the scratch of his beard against her skin. "It was quite frightening, I know."

To her surprise, he did not pull away. Instead, he leaned into her touch like a cat seeking affection.

"Yes," he said, looking up, "but it is not the fright that plagues me."

"What is it, then?"

"The footpads knew my name," he said, as if that explained everything.

"Pardon me?" Her hand dropped.

"The footpads." He stood and paced away from the desk, tousling his hair. "The night after you arrived, when Marie and I were accosted, one of them called me by name before he shot. It was as if he wanted to be certain of who I was. I didn't think much of it then, but now, with the accident..."

"What about the accident?" Temperance slid into his chair, her rapt attention on her husband's tense back.

He turned and paced back. "The way the wheel snapped... it looks almost as though it had been tampered with, made to fail at top speed. Had it done so, we would all be dead. That rut we struck may have saved our lives."

Temperance shivered, the fine hairs rising along her arms. "You think these were deliberate attempts on your life?"

"Possibly." He paused, one hand propped against the edge of his desk. "But it is nothing for you to worry about."

"I beg your pardon?" She stood, stretching to her full height. "You tell me someone may be orchestrating your demise, and in the same breath you tell me not to worry?"

"I am being sensible. There is no point in both of us spending sleepless nights poring over this conundrum."

"If you think I am going to peacefully go to bed after that revelation, you must truly have gone mad!"