The duchesse gave a little wry smile, and Callie saw where her son had inherited that particular expression of self-deprecating appeal. But Callie hadn't gone through coaxing Hubert out of a kitchen, masquer ading as a Belgian lady, suffering an animal rout at the cattle fair, and then discovering that Trev was married to some person who forged bank notes, without learning anything. She resisted forcefully the danger of succumbing to any Gallic charm.

"I'm very sorry," she said, holding herself stiff. "I had thought you were unwell, ma'am, and so I came as quickly as I received your note. I'm happy to see that you aren't in danger. Regarding thief-takers, I don't see what I can do in such matters. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and prevent Nurse from fetching the doctor."

She turned toward the door, half expecting that Trev would endeavor to stop her. He didn't. The duchesse said nothing. Callie reached for the latch with silence in the room behind her. She paused with her hand on the knob.

His mother made a very small cough, a faint, muff led sound, as if she tried to stif le it.

Callie dropped her hand. She turned about. "Oh, very well!" she exclaimed. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," Trev said. He stood across the room from her, making no attempt to move closer. "I didn't know that my mother had contacted you—I asked her not to do so." He gave the duchesse a brief glance. "I'll inquire into how you managed that under my very nose, Maman, but later. Please, Lady Callista, if you'll just contrive to forget that you've seen me here, you needn't concern yourself further in the situation."

"Excellent." She threw up her hands. "The last I was told, you were arrested on the Bristol quay and put to trial, and now I'm to forget I've seen you here while a thief-taker out of Bow Street lurks in the garden."

"Hired by your new fiancé, as I understand," he replied acidly. "I could wish you'd suggested to him that he call off the hounds. I've had his pursuers on my heels since I left Hereford."

For herself, she could have wished that he had mentioned he was married. But she was determined to say nothing of that. She had spent a number of nights weeping into her pillow over the disclosure, but she would die rather than allow him to know it. It was quite certain to her now that she had made the veriest fool of herself. She could not remember with any clarity their brief discussion of marriage in Hereford, though she had spent long hours trying to recall what precisely he had said about it. All she could seem to draw from her memory, with considerable blushing, were the parts that had little to do with conversation. He had not wished to marry her in the morning, however—that much she remembered perfectly.