Unless he had another life, another wife, in some foreign place . . . perhaps he had even taken another name.

It was an unpleasant thought, but it was better than what Cecil Pinkler-Ryburn, in line to be the next duke, believed. Her husband’s heir and his wife, Claribel, had appeared in Paris a few months after Theo, following a rush of fashionable people who deserted London for the Continent. Though Claribel was unfashionably maternal and preferred to stay at home with her little ones, Cecil had become one of Theo’s most frequent callers, as they found (rather to Theo’s surprise) that they enjoyed each other’s company very much.

But Cecil firmly believed that if James were alive, he would have returned to London as soon as he learned that he was now a duke; according to Cecil’s logic, because he did not return, James must be dead.

Theo tried not to think about it. She was having a wonderful time in France, rootling out antique fabrics and sending them back to her weavers; snatching up Greek designs wherever she could and sending those back to Ashbrook Ceramics; being fêted at the French court. Yet the sad truth was that behind every success was a faint mindful awareness of what James would think.

She seemed to carry James with her as a silent audience of one. Over time she had forgotten (more or less) about the unpleasant aspects of their marriage and just remembered what a friend he had been, and how he had encouraged her during her debut as a wallflower with a hopeless adoration for Lord Geoffrey Trevelyan.

Her closest friend now was Cecil, though he bore no resemblance to James in character or figure. He had grown quite plump, particularly around the place where his waist used to be. He had learned to care more for a turbot in a good wine sauce than the height of his collar, and he was steady and devoted in his new passion.

He had also dropped the excesses of fashion that characterized him as a younger man, though he had not deserted fashion altogether: these days he frequently wore Ryburn silks. In particular, Cecil benefited from a colorful cravat—a new style in Paris—because it drew attention away from the fact a second chin had joined his first.

“Is that a new cravat?” Theo asked now, taking tea with him.

“Indeed,” he said now, his smile emphasizing the rather charming laughter lines around his eyes. “My man didn’t care to pair a pink cravat with a violet coat, but I cited your example and he gave in. I must say, there’s something wonderful about watching a Frenchman accede to an Englishwoman’s dictates. I would never be able to face him down without you to back me up.”

Theo poured him another cup of tea. “I do appreciate the fact that you haven’t been in the least forceful about asking me to do something formal regarding the dukedom.”

“Lord knows I don’t want the title,” Cecil said with a shrug. And he meant it. He was cheerfully indolent and viewed with horror the duties associated with the duchy. “The only thing I would find even remotely interesting about becoming a duke would be if one of my fellow peers murdered someone and we got to sit in judgment. But frankly, that happens all too rarely.”

“Bloodthirsty wretch,” Theo said affectionately.

“I have more than enough money of my own. It’s my father-in-law who’s chuffed at the prospect.”

“We cannot declare James dead,” Theo said, the words coming in a rush, “without making another effort to find him first. I’ve been thinking that I had better return to England and see what’s happened to all those Bow Street Runners I sent out. After Christmas, in time for the season, perhaps. I can’t stay in Paris forever.”

Cecil cleared his throat. “My father-in-law also hired a runner two years ago.”

“The man found nothing?”

“I saw no point in telling you unless we had been able to find James. There are statutory regulations, you know . . . the duke has to be missing for seven years.”

“It will be seven years come June after this,” Theo said, scowling into her teacup. “Did your man travel to India? I remember James talking of that country.”

“I will ask,” Cecil said, heaving himself out of his chair.

The 1814 Christmas season was lovely; the city danced, as only Paris can. But Theo found herself increasingly aware of a bleak fear in her heart. Could it be true that something frightful had happened to James?

It would be awful if she had forced him to leave England and he had died on some foreign shore. Or worse, aboard a sinking ship. She found herself waking in the night, unable to sleep as she imagined the Percival capsized in a storm, James’s last gasp as he slid under the waves. She would push the image away, sleep—only to wake again with the realization that death would explain why James never contacted his father.

It was bewildering to discover that she cared so much for an absent, less-than-truthful spouse.

Finally, she sat up one morning and found she was weary of the guilt, the grief, the pesky longing that wouldn’t go away.

“He is dead,” she told herself, trying the words aloud in the chilly morning air. It was a painful thought, but not an overwhelming one. Six years, almost seven, is a long time, after all, and they had been married all of two days. She missed her childhood friend far more than she missed his brief incarnation as her husband.

She summoned Cecil to her house. They were both planning to return to England in February.

“We’ll give it one more year,” she told him. “At that point, we’ll do whatever necessary to shift the title to you.”

“And then you must marry again,” Cecil said. “Claribel and I both wish to see you in a happy marriage.”

What sort of man to marry? That was a real question.

She kept coming up with the same list of desired qualities. She would like a man with a singing voice, because she’d never forgotten the way that James sang to her in the dawn, after they’d made love all night long.

She wanted someone with blue eyes. She would like him to have a generous smile and a sense of humor and a deep kindness.

It didn’t take much of an intellect to add up her list of requirements and discover they pointed toward a man who was absent and almost certainly dead. So she redoubled her efforts to convince herself of James’s perfidy. Would she really want to take back a man who had married her when commanded to do so by his father?

The answer was dismal. Yes. Yes, she would.

As long as he would make love to her, and sing to her afterward.

Eighteen

April 1815

The opening ball of a given season is the most interesting for any number of reasons, some of them obvious, and some more esoteric. Not only do all the young ladies entering society for the first time make their debut appearance, but the composition of the ton becomes clear. Who is in mourning and staying in the country? Whose marriage has fallen into such disarray that husband and wife are living in separate establishments? Who has lost so much money at the races that he appears in a coat that is dismally old-fashioned?

It was at a first ball that Beau Brummell made his appearance, immaculate in black and white. It was at a first ball that Petunia Stafford exhibited the cropped curls that made her look like a giddy yet dazzling child; at another, Lady Bellingham appeared in dampened petticoats (and there were those who questioned to this day whether she had worn a chemise).

Theo chose to skip the opening ball of the 1815 season. It would be too obvious, and she considered it an unspoken rule that the Countess of Islay never did what was obvious.