Chapter 7
“Lie down, my lord, and I’ll rub more liniment on your leg.”
“Damn it, Broderick, forget the liniment. Where’s the brandy?” Sinclair flopped onto his bed, weary beyond belief. Something poked him in the hip. He rolled over and searched under the covers, then in his dressing gown pocket. Quincy’s spectacles.
He held them up to the window. The frames were hopelessly bent, but the right lens was still intact.
Broderick handed him a glass of brandy, then pulled the dressing gown and nightshirt back to expose his leg. “A compromise, my lord.”
“Get on with it, then.” While Broderick attacked him with liniment, Sinclair downed his drink and stared through the spectacles at the perfectly clear image of the wallpaper pattern. He sat upright. “It’s plain glass.”
“Beg pardon, my lord?
