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interlude is the last thing people would expect of me.”
    “Except perhaps for taking a wife?”
    The smile deepened. “Precisely.”

4
    M alcolm stared round the sitting room of the lodgings he had occupied since he’d come to Lisbon four years ago. Papers overflowing the writing desk. Books crowded on the bookshelves that lined three walls and stacked on the floor and on nearly every available surface. A pianoforte he’d had shipped over from England, one of his few extravagances. One comfortably frayed tapestry wing-back chair by the fireplace. A door leading to the adjoining bedchamber, also crowded with books but with little else to give it a personal stamp.
    “Sir?” Addison’s voice cut in on his thoughts. “Is anything the matter?”
    “No. That is—” Malcolm turned to look at the man who’d been his valet since he went up to Oxford. “I’m going to marry Suzanne de Saint-Vallier.”
    A genuine smile broke across Addison’s reserved face. “My felicitations, sir. To you both.”
    “Thank you.” Malcolm cast another glance round the room. “She’ll be coming to live here. As will Blanca.”
    “So I would presume.”
    “We’ll have to—”
    “Make room.” Addison, who had presided over a bachelor establishment for nearly a decade, seemed unfazed. But then very little fazed Addison, from unexpected guests to French snipers. “I will speak to Senhora Rivera and see if we can have the small room down the passage for Blanca—Miss Mendoza.”
    “We should have another chair in the sitting room at the very least.”
    “And a chest of drawers. I’ll see what I can do. I imagine Mrs. Rannoch will wish to purchase more after she settles in.”
    Mrs. Rannoch . How odd it sounded. His mother had been Lady Arabella Rannoch. A welcome distinction. He didn’t need his parents hanging over this oddly begun marriage any more than they inevitably would. “Thank you. Addison—” Malcolm turned to look at his valet. They had depended on each other, shared tight quarters, saved each other’s lives more than once. Addison knew him in ways no one else on earth did. Yet they rarely spoke of personal topics. “Do you think I’m a fool?”
    “I’ve always thought you possessed a very keen understanding, sir. This only confirms that opinion.”
    “I don’t have the least idea what I’m doing.”
    “I expect that’s true of many people when they get married.” Addison adjusted the cashmere blanket draped over the back of the tapestry chair. “Miss Saint-Vallier is an exceptional woman. You’re a fortunate man.”
    “I’m well aware of it.”
    “And she’s a fortunate woman.”
    Malcolm smiled. But it couldn’t banish the bite of incipient failure.
     
     
    Blanca dropped the curling tongs—fortunately unheated—to the floor with a clatter. “You aren’t serious.”
    “It’s scarcely the sort of thing I’d joke about.” Suzanne leaned toward the dressing table mirror as she adjusted the silver filigree clasp on her gauze overdress.
    “You’re actually going to marry him.” Blanca plunged the curling tongs into the chimney of the Argand lamp on the dressing table.
    “I don’t think he’d agree to live with me otherwise. He’s quite conventional about some things.”
    “You’ll be tied to him.”
    “That’s the point.” Suzanne picked up a brush and added a touch more rouge to her cheeks. “Think of the information I’ll be able to gather.”
    “He’ll be the father of your child.”
    The rouge brush fell from her fingers to the polished walnut of the dressing table. “He’ll be gone much of the time. And you can’t deny the child will be safer in Lisbon than on my usual adventures.”
    Blanca pulled the tongs from the lamp. “He’s in love with you.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” Suzanne picked up the brush and wiped at the rouge smeared on the tabletop. “He’s doing it because he knows of my predicament and wants to offer me a way out.”
    Blanca wound a lock