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wonder Tristan had never replied to her letters. She had forgotten her training as soon as they married and in so doing had lowered his opinion of her. She’d been too eager. She hadn’t been ladylike. And with Lady Clare taking her place at Fontaine, Francesca’s true colours had been revealed to the world. I am not a lady, our marriage is over. I mustn’t let a handful of kisses delude me into hoping otherwise.
    And if discovering that she was in truth no lady wasn’t bad enough, today she had behaved like a loose woman. The Count of the Isles needed a real lady—one with impeccable bloodlines and lands to bolster his holdings and revenues.
    Tristan’s kisses meant nothing—he was ambitious, he needed a dynastic marriage.
    How stupid she’d been down there in Sir Gervase’s office. She’d lost herself in his kiss. A kiss which had made her long for things which were not hers and never could be.
    Tristan wanted a real lady. Francesca couldn’t excuse herself by saying she’d been overcome by passion, she should know better. She couldn’t even claim it had been the sight of his handsome face or his powerful body that had weakened her knees. It had been far too dark for her to see very much. Being in his arms had simply overwhelmed her.
    Her mistake had been that she shouldn’t have let him know it. Mari would be well within her rights to call her a halfwit. She had forgotten her training and in responding with such heat she’d simply confirmed her lack of breeding. She’d made matters worse.
    At the last turn in the stairs, they came to a studded oak door. Leaning past her, Tristan opened the door.
    Candles were burning in wall sconces. The bedchamber was, as Sir Gervase had hinted, cramped. There was a decent-looking bed, a long, shuttered window and not much else.
    * * *
    Confirmation of Sir Joakim Kerjean’s identity had hit Tristan like a blow to the gut. Shaken by a bewildering combination of fury and anxiety, he’d barely heard anything else Sir Gervase had said.
    Sir Joakim Kerjean was the very man who’d been asking after Francesca at des Iles. What had the man been planning when he had pulled her into the palace corridor? Had they spoken before this? Had she become his mistress?
    Tristan cast his mind back to the moment he’d come upon them outside Sir Gervase’s office. He wanted to believe that Kerjean had lured an innocent Francesca into the corridor. He wanted to think that she had been cornered by an unwelcome and unexpected admirer. She had certainly slapped the man smartly enough. Unfortunately, it might not be as simple as that. Tristan must keep his mind open to all possibilities, however grim he might find them.
    Think, Tristan, think. Francesca was still his wife. Their marriage was in tatters, yet he couldn’t help but be fond of her. That kiss had proved—as he feared it might—that their passion for each other wasn’t completely dead. And what Tristan was feeling now—the anger, the rush of loathing towards Kerjean, the terrible uncertainly that scattered clear thought—it felt very much like jealousy. Jealousy would not help here.
    Think. When Tristan had followed them into the corridor, both Francesca and Kerjean had been wearing masks. The most harmless possibility was that neither of them knew the other’s identity, they had met by mere chance. In light of the enquiries Sir Joakim had been making in des Iles, the idea that Tristan had stumbled upon an innocent flirtation seemed extremely unlikely. Sadly, the idea that they had met by mere chance must be dismissed.
    Tristan tore his gaze from Francesca as she looked about the bedchamber and forced himself to remember exactly what he had seen from the gallery. Kerjean had taken her by the hand and he’d been pulling her towards that corridor. Had she gone willingly? It might not have been an assignation.
    He was starting to feel