“She took ill some years ago. A bout of influenza weakened her lungs. Sometimes, when she’s exerted herself, she finds it hard to catch her breath.”

Allendale returned to his supper. “You know how I feel about frail, sickly females.”

“She’s not frail. She’s the strongest person I know. The strongest, the bravest.” A lump formed in St. Clare’s throat. “She saved my life in Somerset. If not for her…”

“A gel with spirit. That’s something, at least. Only natural you should feel gratitude toward her.”

“It’s more than gratitude. I told you. My feelings for her—”

“Feelings, bah! You appeared willing enough to forget those feelings before we came here.” Allendale speared a piece of sturgeon with his fork. “You weren’t moping about Rome or Venice, as I recall.”

St. Clare’s expression hardened. There had been precious little time for moping when his grandfather had first taken him in hand. Indeed, in the beginning, every waking moment had been absorbed by lessons. Lessons upon lessons from an endless string of pitiless foreign tutors.

He’d had to learn everything over again. More than just the reading and writing that Maggie had taught him as a boy. He’d had to re-learn how to walk and talk. How to think. Most importantly of all, he’d had to prove that he had the aptitude to change. The raw material, as his grandfather had called it.

“No use wasting my time if you haven’t the capacity for it,” he’d often said. “You can go straight back to where you came from. I’ve no patience with a lad who won’t put in the effort.”

St. Clare had put in the effort and more.

He’d studied ceaselessly, his hours in the schoolroom broken only by hours spent with his fencing instructor or practicing his shooting. In time, he’d mastered pistols and swordplay. Even more difficult, he’d learned how to master his own unruly temper.

None of it had been easy. Every day had ended in physical and mental exhaustion. And then he’d gone to sleep, only to start over again the next day and the next. Training and studying and learning, until he didn’t only look and act different, he was different. Until Nicholas Seaton was dead and a new man had risen in his place. A gentleman. A nobleman.

It had taken ten years to effect the transformation. A complete one by outward appearances. But one small part of Nicholas Seaton had resisted the change. A piece of his heart had remained, beating as strongly as ever, pure and true and steadfast for Maggie Honeywell.

No matter how long it takes, I will come back for you.

“I never forgot her,” he said. “She’s the only person on this earth I’ve ever loved.”