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Giuseppe. The past is not a book you can rewrite to suit yourself.”
    He made no response. Jael tucked her knife away, and then the pipe; walked to where her horse was hidden among the trees. Giuseppe followed, made a stepping-block of his hands, and tossed her up on the mare’s back. She nodded at him, curtly, and touched her heel to the horse’s flank.
    Deep in thought, Jael rode through the night. She arrived at the Castle stables, unsaddled and curried her horse. When she stepped outside again, a figure detached itself from the shadows. Jael drew her knife.
    “You wound me, my treasure.” Hubert gazed with a pained expression upon the gleaming blade. “Like Diogenes with his lantern, I have looked into every nook and corner; but unlike Diogenes, I have found she whom I sought. At the cost of appearing rather prudish, I must observe that to be racketing in a solitary manner about the countryside, and in the dead of night, is not at all the thing.”
    Jael made a vulgar remark concerning what Hubert might do with his hypothetical lantern. He smiled and gently plucked the knife from her grasp. “This, from the charmer of my heart and soul. I wonder at myself. Now, my pet, I think you must explain to me why you were prompted to play least-in-sight. And,” he dropped his bantering tone. “I warn you that my temper has been sorely tried already tonight.”
    It was a measure of the man that this remark, despite his effeminate appearance, caused Jael to eye him cautiously. “I should think it was clear as noonday.”
    “Am I to conclude that you are tired of my company, and have chosen this extremely circuitous way of informing me so?” Hubert asked her. “Appalling to discover in oneself a dog-in-the-manger attitude, but there it is. What is to be done? Will you allow yourself to be frightened into submission, or shall I offer up tears and threats of suicide?”
    Jael accepted the knife that he held out to her, replaced it in its sheathe. “You surpass belief.”
    “So I flatter myself.” With fingers whose strength belied their aristocratic appearance, Hubert grasped her arm. “In the normal progression of events, you’d be offering to slit my throat in return for my aspersions upon your virtue. Am I to conclude, therefore, that you have been unvirtuous?”
    Ever so slightly, Jael winced, due to the pressure of his fingers. Hubert released her at once. “You’re a prosy devil,” she said, with a flash of her perfect teeth. “Do you mean for us to stand here all the night? ‘Twould be a fit punishment for playing you false, were I to catch my death.”
    “If the shoe fits,” murmured Hubert. “Still, despite appearances, I don’t think it does fit. You have been with me long enough that I shan’t mistrust you quickly, though that sentiment isn’t one you share. It isn’t an especially comfortable state of affairs, if you will forgive the expression, but I strive to make the best of it. You don’t make it easy, Jael.”
    A more sentimental woman might have been touched by so sincere a speech, and from so satiric a source; might have recalled the long time it had taken her to progress from posing as an artist’s model to sharing the artist’s bed. Jael said, dismissively, “Why should I? You’ve had it made easy for you all your life.”
    The Honourable Hubert displayed no indignation at being so maligned. Odd as it may have been, in light of his conviction that his petite amie was seeking mightily to throw him off the scent, he was enjoying this exchange.
    “What a bizarre effect you have upon my heart, my shrew.” Hubert placed a hand on either side of Jael’s face and forced her to meet his gaze. “That too will not serve. Sir Wesley’s death is garnering a great deal of attention from first my aunt and now, I’ll wager, you. It must be apparent to even a block, which I most definitely am not, that the pair of you doubt the old man died of a simple heart attack. Which leads me to another