Penelope didn’t know what. But he was supposed to. If he didn’t know, she couldn’t tell him.

As if matters weren’t bad enough, Alex’s brother chimed in. “I have a question,” he said, looking down at her from all the height of his saddle. “Who are you?”

Penelope crossed her arms across her chest, venting all her irritation on the nearest convenient target. Jack made a very convenient target. He might as well have had a bull’s eye painted across his chest. “Shouldn’t so accomplished a double-dealing agent already know?”

“For whatever reason, you didn’t make it into my last dispatch.” Jack’s eyes slid sideways to his brother. “Although I believe I may have heard something of you from another source.”

Alex hastily intervened. “This is Lady Frederick Staines.”

“Was Lady Frederick Staines,” Penelope corrected.

“The name doesn’t change,” said Alex softly, and cupped his hands to help boost her into her saddle.

Looping Bathsheba’s reins around her wrist, Penelope looked down at him. “But everything else has,” she said pointedly.

Releasing his hold on the bridle, Alex stepped back. It felt like more than a step. It felt like a renunciation.

But all he said was, “I know.”

I know. That was all he could find to say? I know? Penelope had never more resented the ambiguities of the English language.

Alex’s brother raised a hand. “Well, that’s my cue,” he said cheerfully. “I’m off. Lovely to have met you, Lady — er.”

Self-loathing settled on Penelope’s chest like a weight of heavy stones. Why should Alex’s brother bother to recall her name? It wasn’t worth knowing. She wasn’t worth knowing. She had spoiled her chance with Alex just as she spoiled everything else.

That didn’t mean she was going to let him have the last word.

With bitter bile bubbling in her chest, Penelope ignored Alex and vented her spleen on the departing rider instead, calling derisively after him, “And what am I to call you, sir? Mr. Um?”

Checking his horse, Jack twisted sharply in his saddle. His rogue’s grin seemed to hang in the air behind him, like the curve of a sickle moon.

“You can call me the Moonflower,” he said, and cantered away into the moonlight.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Would you like to travel on to Mysore with us? A change of scene might do you good.” Charlotte perched on the end of a settee, her hands wrapped around a cup of chocolate. Unlike Penelope, Charlotte had remembered to wear her sun hat. In the light from the windows, her skin was as porcelain pure as it had been in a Norfolk winter. She looked at Penelope with evident concern. “Somewhere away.”

“You are probably right,” Penelope said wearily. “But — ”

Charlotte looked at her over the rim of her cup. “But?”

Penelope tilted her cup from side to side, watching as the congealed chocolate left a wash of dark sediment in its wake. She drank her chocolate without sugar, strong, dark, and bitter. But today, she didn’t really feel like drinking it. It was wasteful, she knew, cavalierly tossing aside so dearly bought a luxury. But she was good at tossing things aside. She had practically made a profession of it. Friends, husband, lover. Some clung anyway, despite her best efforts, like the tracks of grainy chocolate adhering to the bowl of the porcelain cup.

Alex hadn’t.

Since they had ridden back to the Residency with Cleave three days before, she had scarcely spoken to him. In the hullabaloo surrounding the so-called Marigold’s capture and death, Penelope had been discreetly pushed to the side. According to the official version, she had been prostrate in her bed at the Residency, overcome with grief like the good little widow that she was. It made Penelope want to gnash her teeth. Unfortunately, tooth gnashing was about the only outlet open to her. There was no way she could voice any of the highly sarcastic things she was dying to say without ruining the story Alex had gone to such trouble to concoct — a story that neatly wrote her out of the entire narrative.

She had never felt so insignificant or so powerless in her life, and that counted her days with Freddy. At least, then, she had been able to kick up a fuss, create a scandal, anything to draw attention to herself, however briefly. But, now, all her old weapons were blunted.

That was the problem with caring. One starting worrying about consequences and what people thought of one and all sorts of other irritating things. It made her feel uncertain. Shy, even. She, who had never felt shy in her life. Even as an infant, she had bawled louder than any other baby in the county.

Perhaps Charlotte was right. Perhaps she did need to get away. She could amuse herself in Mysore by scandalizing Charlotte and picking fights with her duke. There would be more officers with whom to flirt, gardens in which to conduct assignations, an endless round of the same old dissipation, without purpose or meaning.

Without Alex.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, she told herself, gulping down the remains of her tepid chocolate in one joyless gulp.

She was the one who had set the terms. She was the one who had kept him at a distance. She had done her best to push him aside in those dark days after Freddy’s death. And even before that, she had been the one who refused to speak of the future, to acknowledge anything other than the pleasures of the moment. She had made her bed, and she would have to lie on it.

Alone.

“I’m just not sure I’m ready to go,” she said brusquely, avoiding Charlotte’s eyes. “And you and your duke are far too happy. It’s irritating. I don’t think I could endure that for six months at a time.”

Without bothering to put down her chocolate cup, Charlotte reached out to squeeze Penelope’s hand. Her hand was as small and soft as a child’s, with none of the calluses that marked Penelope’s palms. “You will be, too.” She sucked absentmindedly at the droplets of chocolate that had landed on the back of her other hand, adding, with typical Charlotte honesty, “Eventually.”

Penelope levered herself up from the settee, shaking her hand free from Charlotte’s. “I don’t think I can ever be as happy as you until I can become as good as you. And that,” she added definitively, turning away from the settee, “is never going to happen.”

“I don’t think you need to be good to be lovable,” said Charlotte, tilting her head thoughtfully to one side. “You just need to be you.”

“Thank you,” said Penelope dryly.

Charlotte colored. “I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was that you’re lovely just as you are.” Rallying, she added defiantly, “And Captain Reid clearly thinks so, too.”

“Who said anything about Captain Reid?” said Penelope, stretching languorously, as though she hadn’t a care in the world, when what she really wanted to do was grab Charlotte’s hand and demand to know whether Charlotte really thought he thought she was lovely and, if so, why. With details. In triplicate.

“You did,” said Charlotte, with inimitable Charlotte logic. “By not saying anything at all.”

“I haven’t mentioned Bonaparte either,” said Penelope sarcastically. “Would you care to read anything into that?”

“Why not just tell him you love him?” suggested Charlotte.

“Bonaparte?”

Charlotte cast her a reproachful look. “Captain Reid.”

Penelope turned to give Charlotte her best derisive stare. And froze. Behind Charlotte, framed in the doorway, stood a man in ill-cut clothes with a suntanned face and close-cut black hair.

“Penelope?” There was a rustling noise as Charlotte twisted on the settee, followed by a faint “Oh.”

Penelope had heard the expression “speak of the devil” before, but she had never thought that it would work quite that literally. The bitter chocolate congealed in an undigested lump in the back of her throat, blocking any possibility of speech. That was probably a good thing. Penelope didn’t trust herself to speak judiciously. Not right now.

Of course, right now what she most wanted to do was murder Charlotte.

After eleven years of friendship, Charlotte had developed a very sound sense of self-preservation where Penelope was concerned.

“I’m just going to go for a walk now,” said Charlotte a little too loudly as she scurried towards the door. “A very long walk.”

Penelope was going to kill Charlotte. Slowly. Painfully. Just as soon as she got back from her very long walk. If Charlotte had any sense, it would be a very bloody long walk indeed. Preferably all the way to the Outer Hebrides. On foot.

Alex moved politely to the side to let her pass, somehow managing to nod in greeting without ever moving his eyes from Penelope. That unbroken stare was distinctly unnerving.

“Captain Reid.” Charlotte bobbed a hasty curtsy and whisked herself around the door frame.

A long, drawn-out “Bye-eee” trailed down the hallway after her.

If Charlotte didn’t watch out, that was going to be her very last bye-eee, thought Penelope grimly.

It was calming to concentrate on murdering Charlotte. It removed at least part of her mind from Alex, who might or might not have heard that very unfortunate little conversation about certain emotions that one might or might not be feeling.

“Penelope.” Alex took a slow step into the room.

Something had to be done. A diversion. A preemptive strike. Anything to diffuse the dreadful tension that suffused the room like strong tea.

“Hello,” Penelope croaked.

As a preemptive strike, it lacked a certain amount of force.

Alex continued his slow progress into the room, his face giving nothing away. He wasn’t terribly good at dissembling, but he did a brilliant imitation of a granite boulder.

Squaring her shoulders, Penelope took strength from the reminder that, Charlotte’s romanticism aside, anything that had been between them was long since over. They were sophisticated adults, prepared to deal with each other in a sophisticated way — and why was he staring at her feet?

Oh. There were drops of brown goo plopping slowly onto her slippers.

Penelope hastily set her empty chocolate cup down on a teak table and drew in a deep, bracing breath through her nose.

“Captain Reid,” she said forbiddingly. Had she said that already? She couldn’t remember. But it certainly staved off any discussion of love.

His lips twisted up on one side. “So formal?” he said.

Damn. He had heard, hadn’t he? Damn, damn, damn. “You might as well be a stranger,” she snapped. “I’ve scarcely seen you for days.”

That had been a tactical error. She sounded . . . jealous. Clingy. In short, like a woman in love.

But her former lover didn’t press his advantage. Instead, apropos of nothing, he announced, “I’ve been made District Commissioner for a parcel of the ceded territories.”

“Well, huzzah for you,” said Penelope rudely. And since that might have been a bit too churlish, even for her, she added grudgingly, “I’m sure no one could have deserved it more.”

“Thank you.” He was still watching her — like a worm on a hook, thought Penelope unpleasantly. Couldn’t he just squish her and put her out of her misery already? No, this was Alex. He would shy from squishing. He would try to do it humanely, and in the process hurt her far worse. She didn’t want to be disposed of humanely. She would rather be able to resent him after.

“So you’ll be leaving, then, I take it?” she said tartly. “You must be eager to brush the dust of Hyderabad off your heels.”

“Some dust more than others,” he said.

Here it came, thought Penelope. The thank-you-for-a-lovely-interlude. The you-were-highly-diverting-while-it-lasted. The it-was-wonderful-but-it’s-over. Drop me a letter once every three years, and have a nice life.

“Dust is dust,” said Penelope brusquely. “The same the world over. If you’ve come to say good-bye, say it.”

But he didn’t.

“Your friend seemed to think you have something to tell me,” he said.

So he had heard that. Damn, damn, damn. Damn bloody Charlotte with her irksome habit of blurting out the first thing to come to her lips. Damn her for putting herself in this position in the first place. But she hadn’t entirely. She hadn’t spoken of love. She had never spoken of love. That was all Charlotte.

Even if Charlotte did happen to be right.

“Why should I?” Penelope said shrilly, feeling like a drowning man clutching for a rope.