“That afternoon in my study,” he prompted her.

Sophie blushed. “Oh yes.”

“I went to Water’s Bookstore and asked for a copy of Kotzebue’s travels.”

Sophie’s eyes grew instantly wary.

“That’s right, oh my wife,” Patrick said, nodding. “The only book they could offer me was Merkwürdigste Jahr Meines Lebens.”

Sophie turned a bit pink. “I think a man named Reverend Beresford is working on a translation,” she said in a small, guilty voice.

“You can give it to me for Christmas,” Patrick said. He was smiling, although he tried to keep his voice stern. “And I received a letter from Lord Breksby yesterday, Sophie. Bayrak Mustafa was no Turk, although it seems his mother might have been Turkish. But to all intents and purposes, Mustafa was an illiterate Englishman more commonly known as Mole.”

Sophie’s eyes grew wide. “Why did they bring us that inkwell?”

“Monsieur Foucault and Mr. Mole were in the pay of Emperor Napoleon,” Patrick said comfortably. “In fact, they planned to blow Selim III sky high.”

“The inkwell!” Sophie gasped.

“Exactly so, my dear wife.” Patrick ran his finger down Sophie’s uptilted nose. “Exactly so. Apparently, Napoleon reasoned that an explosion would cause Selim—if he survived—to declare war on England. Except that his henchmen were foiled by the intelligence of my wife.”

Patrick leaned over Sophie, looking straight into her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me, Sophie?”

“My mother,” Sophie said in a stifled voice. “My mother said you would take a dislike of me if you knew I was a bluestocking. She said that no man wants to think that his wife knows more languages than he does.”

“A bluestocking!” For a moment Patrick was silent, looking down at his petite, gorgeous wife. Even having taken a nap, and picnicked in the open, she looked like a plate from La Belle Assemblée.

“I was so proud when I realized you were able to read German,” Patrick said. “I doubt any other man in London has a wife who is able to speak French, Welsh, Turkish, and German!”

There was a moment’s silence, like the hushed pause before a stone, dropped into a well, hits the water far below.

“Oh Lord,” Patrick said. “I’m a nodcock, aren’t I? How many languages can the Duchess of Gisle speak?”

Sophie turned even pinker. “Well, Italian doesn’t even count, really, because it’s so close to French.”

“I should have guessed that,” Patrick said in a resigned tone, a smile gleaming in his eye. “I should have nobbled it the moment you knew the proper word for Leghorn, shouldn’t I?”

Sophie grinned at him.

“Any more?” Patrick gave his voice a mock-grim tone.

“I know a little Portuguese and a little Dutch,” she said in a rush.

“A little?” He bent down and planted a hard kiss on her lips. “Does that mean you are a fluent speaker?”