Instead, I ask about her own home, the one she shares with her father. What is it like? Does she love it as much as I love my parents’ London townhouse? I have the most beautiful rooms there, an entire floor now that my siblings have wed. A bedroom and a sitting room and a bath . . .

Oh, it seems poor Emily does not have quite so grand of quarters in the house she rents with her father. However, she does have them at her uncle’s estate . . .

“He allows me to keep my old rooms there,” she says. “It is most kind of him. I have an entire wing. Bedroom, sitting room and morning room.”

“A morning room? I have dreamed of a morning room. That is the problem with London townhouses. They are wonderfully close to everything, but they are also annoyingly close to one another. There is simply no good light. Or perhaps that is just London.”

She laughs. “London is dreadfully gloomy.”

“It is, which may be why I dream of a country morning room where the sunlight streams through.” I sigh. “Please tell me yours is like that.”

“It is. It has the perfect southern window with a seat.”

“A window seat? With cushions?”

We go on like that for a bit. I do not say that I should love to see her quarters. That goes too far. Oh, I suspect she wouldn’t notice, but I still do not want her thinking I have wrangled an invitation, which she will later find suspicious. I simply talk about morning rooms and window seats, and we move on to compare our quarters in our respective homes.

“You must visit us in London,” I say, clasping her hands. “You do go to London, yes? You’ve had your season?”

“I am not allowed to yet. Uncle has promised me one, but not until I am twenty-one. Twenty-one, can you imagine?”

“That is not so far off, and when you do have it, you will be in London for months, with dress fittings and parties. Oh, the parties. They are wonderful. You must come visit us and—”

“Parties!” she says. Then she claps her hands to her mouth. “Oh, I am so sorry. That was terribly rude of me. I did not mean to interrupt. It is just that, earlier, when you said you had been to the Midsummer Ball at Courtenay Hall, it reminded me that we are to have a dance at my uncle’s tonight, and that I should dearly love to invite you, but of course, that would have been most odd, inviting someone I only met moments ago. Yet now that we have spoken properly, I may invite you, yes? It would be proper?”

I am not certain that a two-hour acquaintance qualifies that much more than a two-minute one, but Emily is, again, a lonely girl. Do I feel guilty about taking advantage of that? I would if not for two things. One, she may have betrayed Nicolas. Two, there is more at stake here than protecting a young woman’s pride. If she later realizes I laid a trap—and she dove into it—then that will sting, but Andrés and the people of Hood’s Bay are more important.