“Mother,” Honoria said again, “there is nothing we can do until Daniel arrives. He may not even want a celebration.”

“Nonsense. Of course he will. He—”

“He left the country in disgrace,” Honoria cut in. She hated to be so blunt, but there was nothing else for it.

“Yes, but it wasn’t fair.”

“It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t fair. It is what it is, and he might not wish to remind anyone of it.”

Her mother looked unconvinced, but she let the matter drop, and then there was nothing to do but go to bed.

The following morning, Honoria arose with the sun. They were to depart early; it was the only way to make it to London without having to stop for the night along the route. After a quick breakfast, she made her way to Marcus’s room to say good-bye.

And maybe more.

But when she arrived, he was not in his bed. A housemaid was there, however, pulling the sheets from the mattress.

“Do you know where Lord Chatteris is?” Honoria inquired, hoping that nothing was amiss.

“He’s just in the next room,” the maid replied. Then her cheeks went a bit pink. “With his valet.”

Honoria swallowed and probably turned a little pink herself, understanding quite well that this meant that Marcus was taking a bath. The maid departed with her bundle of linens, and Honoria stood alone in his bedchamber for a moment, wondering what to do next. She supposed she would have to say good-bye in writing. She could not wait for him here; it was beyond irregular, beyond even all the other irregularities they had committed in the past week.

There were certain rules of propriety that could be bent when someone was deathly ill, but now Marcus was up and about, and apparently in some degree of undress. There was no way her presence in his room could lead to anything other than complete ruination.

And besides, her mother was most impatient to be off.

She glanced about the room for paper and pen. There was a small desk by the window, and on his bedside table she saw—

The letter from Daniel.

It lay where Marcus had set it down it the night before, two somewhat wrinkled pages filled with the small, tight writing people used when they were trying to save postage. Marcus hadn’t told her anything that was in the letter other than the fact that Daniel was coming home. Which was of course the most important thing, but even so, she was ravenous for news. It had been so long since she’d had any information of him. She didn’t care if he only mentioned what he’d eaten for breakfast . . . It would be breakfast in Italy and thus terribly exotic. What was he doing? Was he bored? Could he speak Italian?