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remark, Mr. Grimsby.” Freddie grinned. “I was only four years old at the time, so I hardly remember anything, only that she was quite remarkably beautiful. Or perhaps I don’t even remember that; it’s just what people have said.
Oh, the duchess, she was beautiful, she was legendary.
Well, they put it about that she’d gone abroad for her health, but the fact is she bolted, pure and simple. And if there
were
any possibility of changing Pater’s mind about entering society again, it died right there. Cake?”
    “No, thank you.” Emilie set her cup aside. The clouds had blown in, deadening the sunlight that had spilled so cheerfully through the window at nine o’clock, and the room was turning chilly. She rose and went to the coal scuttle. Clearly the schoolroom was not in much use. The lemony scent of a recent scrubbing could not quite disguise the mustiness, the old-wood smell of a space unaccustomed to human habitation. “She
is
still alive, however?” Emilie heard herself ask, as she tossed a few pieces of black coal atop the sizzling pile in the grate.
    “Oh, I don’t know about that. You’d have to ask Pater.” Freddie’s voice was thick with additional cake.
    “Of course I shan’t ask your father. It’s not my concern.”
    “I don’t personally care one way or the other, really. I daresay she’s not losing sleep over me and Pater, wherever she is.”
    Emilie sat back down and straightened her lapels. “Then she is a fool.”
    “I do wonder what she was like, though.” Freddie leaned back and drained the last of his coffee. “They were most spectacularly in love at first, I’m told. Honeymoon in Italy, though as I was born nine months after the wedding I don’t suppose they saw much of the sights, if you see what I mean. Then Pater’s regiment was called up, and that was that.”
    Beneath her whiskers, Emilie’s cheeks burned. “That will be quite enough, your lordship.”
    “Indeed.”
    The single word boomed through the air like a cannon shot. Emilie jumped, spilled her coffee, and whipped around.
    The Duke of Ashland filled the open doorway, his hand on the latch, his white hair glowing above his masked face.
    *   *   *
    T he taut room snapped into panic at Ashland’s appearance, like a platoon caught malingering by a sergeant. A useful skill, this ability to move and observe without being perceived. He owed Olympia that, at least.
    Freddie leapt to his feet; his chair toppled to the floor behind him. “Sir!”
    On the other side of the table, Mr. Grimsby set down his coffee cup and rose. His fingers curled around the edge of the table: shaking, probably. Poor fellow. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he said, in his gruff little voice.
    Ashland stalked into the room, closing the door behind him with a decisive click of the latch. The sound helped to quell the sick feeling in his chest.
    They were most spectacularly in love at first.
    “I see your studies are proceeding apace, Frederick,” he said.
    Freddie picked up his chair, righted it, and sat down. “Oh, don’t be cross and sack poor Mr. Grimsby, Pater. Was only making conversation over coffee. I assure you, he was putting me through my paces at a smart clip a few minutes ago.”
    “No doubt.” Ashland angled his body over the table and ran over the papers and books clustered about the coffee tray. He picked up a sheet. “Are these your Latin conjugations, Frederick?”
    She bolted, pure and simple.
    Ashland locked his fingers to keep them from crushing the paper.
    “Hideous, I know. I’ve already been broken to bits by Mr. Grimsby. On the other hand, he’s quite impressed by my maths.”
    “He should be.” Ashland laid the paper back on the table. “Well, Mr. Grimsby? What’s your assessment?”
    Grimsby’s face still glowed pink beneath that startling bush of wheat-colored whiskers. He cleared his throat. “Lord Silverton is immensely clever, Your Grace, as I suspected, but he will need to study with a great