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softly.
    â€œYes, of course. How could I not be? I meant to be romantic, but this was the best I could do on short notice. That is, I didn’t mean it to be short notice. I meant to wait until at least Tuesday next, but preferably until September. But there you were, sitting across the dinner table, and I was thinking how agreeable it would be if we could go upstairs to the same bedroom, instead of separate houses, and you could sit in my lap instead of all the way across the table on a chair. And then . . .” He trailed off because his brain was conjuring images that activated his breeding organs while deadening his powers of speech and clear thinking.
    He sounded, in short, like a complete nitwit.
    â€œI’m trying to decide,” she said, “whether this is meant to be an offer of carte blanche or a proposal of marriage.”
    â€œI adore you,” he said.
    â€œThat declaration could take things either way,” she said.
    â€œMy dear Chloe, if you don’t marry me, I’ll do something rash.”
    â€œBy which you mean, I presume, hitting yourself in the head repeatedly with the singing bird pistols until you lose consciousness and I take pity on you and say yes.”
    â€œI will certainly do that if necessary.”
    â€œOh, you’re the most ridiculous man. Of course I’ll say yes. I was saying yes, very likely, at the same moment I threw champagne in your face. And I think it’s the most romantic thing in the world, your proposing in this passage, instead of properly, on your knees in, say, our drawing room.”
    â€œI hoped you’d think that.”
    â€œYou knew I’d think that,” she said. “It’s a tragic thing, but our minds are strangely alike.”
    â€œYes, but I love you anyway,” he said. He pulled her close again. “And I challenge you to put up with me until death us do part.”
    She reached up and caught him about the neck. “My lord,” she said, “the satisfaction which your lordship has demanded, it is of course impossible for me to decline.”
    D espite Lord Lovedon’s impatience, the marriage had to wait for the bride’s dress and the bridesmaids’ dresses, and these things take time if they’re to be done properly. Since every item issuing from Maison Noirot was always done properly, it was nearly September before Chloe Sharp became Lady Lovedon.
    They were married, naturally, in the Gold Drawing Room of Castle de Grey, and the laughing way they looked at each other at the end—so obviously sharing a private joke—told all the world that yes, undoubtedly, they’d married for love.

Author’s Note
    N ot only are the singing bird pistols based on historical fact, but they still exist. To watch these wondrous mechanical devices in action, please go to:
    http://www.christies.com/singing-bird-pistols-en-1422-3.aspx

8 February 1840
    Two o’clock in the afternoon
    T he rain, two degrees from sleet, beat down with unrelenting fury. It reduced the rolling landscape to a grey blur, and turned the graveled driveway into a river.
    Hugh Fitzwalter, the third Marquess of Rothwick, slammed the door knocker again . Findley’s staff had picked a fine time to go deaf.
    After a fifty-mile ride from London, the frigid wet had penetrated his lordship’s overcoat and was working its way through the coat underneath. It seeped into his boots and dripped icily from his hat, down his neck, and into his neckcloth.
    The door opened at last, and the wind and rain rushed in, spraying the butler, Freets. In a better frame of mind, Rothwick would have found the man’s expression comical. His lordship was not in a better frame of mind.
    After one wild look at the broad-shouldered figure on the doorstep, Freets collected his wits and backed out of the way. “I do beg your pardon, my lord,” he said. “I’ll have someone see to your lordship’s horse. I hope