Alex didn’t look up. “I need to find out when she left,” he said dully. “Do you think she went to Scotland?”

Patrick didn’t bother to answer. He had the full intention of screwing the whole truth out of that footman—but not until after dinner. If he knew Alex, his brother would insist on riding off for parts unknown before dinner. Patrick was sick of galloping down dangerous roads at night, vulnerable to highwaymen and God knows what else. Maybe he wouldn’t approach the footman until tomorrow morning.

“Were you responsible for refurbishing the house, or was Charlotte?” he asked, with an air of mild curiosity.

“I haven’t entered the house since before father died.”

“Your wife has an eye for color.”

“She’s a painter.”

“Hmmm,” Patrick responded.

“She’s a real painter,” Alex barked. “She paints portraits, and they’re brilliant. She said she might paint me….” He lapsed into silence again.

Patrick was examining a painting on the wall, with some interest.

“Not that,” Alex said irritably. “That’s a Titian. I feel as if someone threw a black sack over my head and is slowly choking me.”

Patrick came back to the couch and sat down in the opposite corner from his brother, stretching out his long, muscular legs. He threw his head back and looked up at the ceiling. Charlotte had had its peeling, faint decoration restored; the ceiling bristled with lazy-looking noblemen and their ladies, picnicking by an elaborately winding stream.

“Why did you do it, Alex? I met Charlotte only twice, but I would have judged her effortlessly honest and true as steel. More, she loved you,” he said ruthlessly. “I felt sorry for her, suffering through an obscene scandal that broke out over nothing, but I never thought that you would subscribe to it.”

“When I left for Italy she told me she had her monthly flux,” Alex replied. “I found she wasn’t a virgin on our wedding night, but she told me that she had lost her virginity to me. I knew that wasn’t true, so I decided she must have lost her virginity to you. Then when I returned, I heard about her fainting when you appeared, and there she was, pregnant.”

“You’re a fool,” Patrick said, not unkindly. “Have you remembered when you slept with her?”

“You’ve met Charlotte, Patrick. Do you think you could forget taking her virginity?”

“You should give it serious thought. She’s not a liar.”

“Well, what about you?”

“As it happens, virgins have been few and far between in my life. I tend to give ’em a wide berth. I deflowered one woman, and she was an Indian maiden on the banks of the Ganges River. It’s a nice memory, but irrelevant.”

“We’re even. I too slept with one virgin, but she had red hair, and it took place at the Cyprians’ Ball.”