“They asked for His Grace,” Clemens said, “and when I informed them that he was not at home, they requested to speak with you.” He let it be known by the curve of his lower lip just what he thought of such a gross lack of propriety. Requesting a call with the mistress when the master was out of the house! Absurd. “I shall inform them that you are not at home.”

Sophie nodded, and Clemens backed out of the room. He returned a few minutes later. Now there was a miniature silver castle on his salver, a willowy, fantastic castle whose turrets were crowned with glowing rubies.

Sophie’s eyebrows rose.

“A gift for the sultan, Selim III,” Clemens pronounced. His tone was still rancorous but he was clearly appeased by the obvious worth of the castle. “Mr. Foucault claims that His Grace is expecting the inkwell and has agreed to present it to the sultan on Mr. Foucault’s behalf.”

“Oh, dear,” Sophie said, rising from her chair. “I had better greet him, hadn’t I? Why, what a lovely piece!” She approached and reached out toward the castle roof. “This must cover the well.”

But Clemens shook his head. “Mr. Foucault desired most earnestly that the inkwell remain untouched at this juncture, as it is temporarily sealed for the trip to the Ottoman Empire. Apparently the well is filled with the sultan’s favorite color ink—green.” Clemens’s lower lip conveyed his opinion of green ink.

“Of course,” Sophie said, withdrawing her hand. “Why don’t you set the castle over there, Clemens?” She waved toward a small parquet table in the corner. “Where are they?”

“In the drawing room,” Clemens replied.

“If you would ask Simone to join me, we shall greet the gentlemen in fifteen minutes.”

Clemens bowed and retreated backward. Ever since Patrick had acceded to the title of duke, Clemens’s self-esteem—and his worth among London butlers—had gone through the roof. The extra consequence had translated into a formality unmatched except in the halls of St. James’s itself.

By the time Simone had been located, and fussed with Sophie’s hair, rather more than fifteen minutes had passed. But Monsieur Foucault pooh-poohed Sophie’s apology.

“It is a pleasure merely to be in the same room with such elegance,” he said, brushing the back of her hand with his mouth. “So many Englishwomen are so—so quaint in their attire!”

Sophie barely averted a shudder at the touch of Foucault’s silky lips. When Foucault introduced his companion, Bayrak Mustafa, Sophie wondered for a moment whether to greet him in Turkish. She certainly had mastered enough of the language to conduct a simple conversation. But pregnancy had had a terrible effect on her memory, and she might make a total dunce of herself. So she merely nodded and said a polite greeting in English, trusting Monsieur Foucault to translate.