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cannot tell by looking at you what you are thinking. I wish you would teach me to do that.”
    “Half your charm, my dear, is your artlessness,” he said, smoothing the loose strands of hair that disturbed her neckline. “I should dislike putting a damper on it by encouraging you to imitate me. I was trained to it, in any case.”
    “You mean all that skulking about Spain for the Duke.”
    He laughed. “You could put it that way—although not in front of Wellington, if you please. As for Miss Melville, I thought her an interesting, intelligent girl, handsome for those who appreciate the type—which I hasten to say I do, although purely in the most academic way. She may well grow into greater beauty with age.”
    Antonia was ransacking her glove box for an appropriate pair to go with the blue dress and said absently, “Who may?”
    “Miss Melville. Isn’t that who you asked me about?”
    “Oh, yes. I was distracted by your skulking. I didn’t know you classified women by type. How disappointingly masculine of you.”
    He turned her toward him and adjusted the dress in front. “I cling to only one type, my love—full-blown roses with blue petals.”
    He kissed her forehead, but she moved her head before he reached her mouth. “Is that so? What about that honeysuckle vine who clung to you at the Drummonds’ reception?”
    “She only wanted to hear about my martial exploits.”
    * * * *
    Having collected Elena at her home—necessitating a detour to the far reaches of Marylebone, of which the viscount’s coachman expressed his disapproval by sitting even more stiffly upright at his post than normally—the Kedringtons, Mr. Fairfax, and Miss Melville duly found themselves standing inside the great stone gateway of Burlington House wondering what to do next, as there was no indication of where, in or out of the building, the marbles were being exhibited, nor was there anyone present who might serve as a guide. Antonia turned to her husband.
    “You did say that Lord George had told you to go in the front gate?”
    Burlington House had been sold the year before, and the new occupants were apparently not yet settled in.
    “Rap on the floor with your cane, Duncan,” Carey suggested. “That usually brings the troops to attention.”
    Kedrington gave him a quelling look and said that as the marbles were reportedly being kept in a separate building on the grounds, he did not suppose the owner would object to their simply strolling in.
    “I daresay the staff has not been instructed to escort stray visitors to the display,” he said as if, had it been his staff, heads would have rolled. “Let us walk around to the yard,” he suggested.
    The party were about to suit the action to the word when footsteps were heard coming in their direction from the colonnades to their left.
    “Hallo!” said Carey. “Here’s rescue perhaps.”
    “Perhaps not,” Kedrington said, listening more carefully. “It’s a man with a limp.”
    The man in question appeared just then from around a pillar and came to a stop, looking mildly startled to see anyone there and even more startled when he recognized one of the fashionable group poised in the forecourt.
    “Duncan!”
    “Robin Campbell, by all that’s holy! What are you doing here?” the viscount said, stepping forward to shake the hand of the pleasant-looking young man who smiled warmly at Kedrington, then at the others.
    “Carey Fairfax as well!” he exclaimed. “A happy surprise!”
    Antonia’s assumption that Mr. Campbell was an army acquaintance of her husband and brother and that he had acquired his limp in the Spanish campaign shortly proved accurate when introductions were made.
    Further examination revealed, mainly by the tightness around the former lieutenant’s blue eyes, that he had suffered from his wound—or perhaps from the war in general. Antonia had lately noticed more and more of this effect now that the last stragglers were coming home from