She lowered her hand, curling her fingers over the note. "But… she's come to find you."

"What a gratifying thought. Doubtless she may offer me some further opportunity to hang on her behalf. Thank you, I believe I'll avoid the prospect—and the adorable Mrs. Fowler—altogether."

Callie turned away, walking across to her dressing table. She dropped the note in an empty pin holder and sat down in bewilderment. "I thought you would wish to see her."

"What possible reason could I have to want to see her?" he demanded. "I've had done with the woman, you may be sure."

She picked up a discarded scarf and began to fold it mechanically. "I suppose… I can understand that you've come to regret your… sacrifice… on her behalf."

He gave a low laugh. "Oh my God." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Regret!"

"I thought—" She paused. "Then you don't love her anymore?"

"Been reading the newspapers, have you?" His voice was full of scorn.

"I did read of it, yes," she said uncomfortably. She tied a knot in the scarf.

"I see." He gave her a civil bow. "I collect that you subscribe to the school of scandal rags that casts me as a hero for shielding my wife, rather than a scoundrel who forged a note of hand for her to pass to her credi tors." He made a casual, contemptuous f lick of his fingers. "I'm not sure which is more f lattering, being thought a criminal or a screaming fool."

"Nothing of the sort!" she exclaimed. "I never thought you a criminal. I hope I know you better than that. And however much a miscarriage of justice it might be, surely no one would suggest a gentleman was a fool to risk his own life to protect his wife."

"Doubtless it would be exceedingly chivalrous, if she were my wife."

"If she—" Callie started to speak, then broke off and blinked at him. "She isn't?"

"You have to ask me that?" he inquired bitterly. "I would have thought… you, of everyone—" He blew out a harsh breath. "But what difference does it make?" He shrugged. "No, she isn't. I've never married. Much to my mother's disgust." He gave a slight laugh and leaned against the bedpost, watching her from under lowered lashes. "I've been in love with you, you know, since I was sixteen years old."

He said it in such a composed way, that for a moment she didn't quite take his meaning. She blinked down at the contorted scarf in her hands, frowning. She forgot, sometimes, how fine and carelessly handsome he was, but it came upon her now with strong force. She forgot because he was her friend; he was simply Trev, who made her laugh. She had adventured with him and had trusted him, slept in his arms.