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eagle-eyed dragon to her right. “Boswell?” she inquired politely.
    Melinda laughed. “Of course!” She looked toward their host. “Now you must name one, Lieutenant.”
    For a moment he seemed as if he did not understand her. Then he said, “I’m no longer an officer, Miss Hamilton. I left the army several years ago.”
    “Oh, we are to call you Mr. Cambourne, then?”
    Once again he did not answer. Folie had never seen a man who appeared bewildered by a query on his own name. He frowned at the clear soup as Lander served Melinda—such a deep frown, so lost in himself, that Folie suddenly spoke to reach him.
    “Robert?” she said softly. And then instantly her heart began to beat in her ears, drumming a retreat from such impertinent forwardness, such a betrayal of...of the person he did not seem to be.
    He gave a brief nod, watching Lander move to serve him from the soup tureen. “That will do. Call me Robert.”
    Melinda glanced at Folie, looking a little nonplussed. It was an informality, not quite proper, but Folie gave a slight shrug of permission. They were cousins, and he was Melinda’s guardian, after all. Though Folie wasn’t certain he was even paying attention to them; he was still concentrated on Lander and the soup.
    Melinda said brightly, “That is very kind of you, sir, if you don’t feel it’s too bold.” She put on what Folie recognized as her best party smile. “Well, now we have named two of these beasts and my guardian. What will you call your dragon, sir?”
    He seemed to draw his gaze away from his cover with a visible effort. He looked at Melinda. “I’m not—fond of the dragons,” he said. He paused, and then a savage life came into his voice. “Frankly, I loathe them,” he said, his mouth curving.
    Melinda’s sunny expression turned to mortification. “I’m sorry, I didn’t perceive—I beg your pardon!” she said in a small voice.
    Her stepdaughter looked so crushed that Folie was hard put to contain a tart remark on his manners. But she merely gave Melinda an encouraging smile, took a sip of soup, and asked, “When did you arrive in England, sir?”
    He looked at her quickly, still with that hostile set to his mouth. As his eyes focused on her, light and fierce, she had the sensation that she had decoyed a wild animal away from its intended prey.
    “A month ago,” he said. “Or two. I’m not certain.”
    “Not long, then,” she said politely. “Did you come direct from the east?”
    “The east?” He was looking at her so intensely that he did not seem to grasp the question.
    “From India.”
    “Yes,” he said, and scowled. “Why?”
    Folie lost her patience. “I am merely attempting to make a little conversation, sir. If you prefer I shall cease and desist, and Miss Hamilton likewise, and you may eat your meal in silence.”
    Melinda’s blue eyes grew large at this rebellion against the guardian and host whose goodwill could prove so vital a support to them. But if Robert Cambourne had any emotion or reaction, he reserved it to himself. “I came from India, yes,” he said, his tone easing a slight degree.
    Folie took this to mean that he was not entirely averse to discourse. Perhaps he was merely eccentric. He seemed so removed from the charming knight of her letters that she could only think of him as another person entirely.
    “Do you plan to remain here, or return?” she asked.
    “Remain here,” he said immediately.
    Encouraged by that ready answer, she said, “Have you collected enough material for your book on the Indian mysticism?”
    He tilted his head. After a slow sip of his wine, he said, “I had forgotten that I’d told you of that.”
    Folie looked quickly down, mortified to have brought up a reminder of their correspondence. Of course he had forgotten; no doubt he had forgot the whole of what he had written. She vehemently hoped it was so.
    She studied him under her lashes as she toyed with her soup. He had never truly described