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effective weapon.
    “Lady Greendale, plain speech would be appreciated.” He spoke not only quietly, but gently, the way he might speak to a child or the elderly. “I’m sure you’d rather be home at such an hour, and I would not detain you unnecessarily.”
    Unfortunate word choice. An English civilian caught in France when war broke out was a détenu .
    “You should have gone home to Severn first, Your Grace, and then it would not fall to me to remind you of your duty, but here we are.”
    She was stalling rather than scolding, suggesting the lady was quite unnerved. He waited her out. He was a master at waiting, and at silence. Girard’s ill-treatment had bequeathed a legacy of patience, in addition to scars.
    And she apparently had some passing familiarity with silence as well. All her fluttering and shifting about ceased. A few beats of quiet went by, and Christian abruptly missed her blathering.
    “It’s your daughter.” She turned limpid blue eyes on him, a world of worry shining out of them, but the worry, for once, wasn’t for him, and that was a curious relief. “I am very concerned about your daughter.”
    ***
    Gilly had gathered up the last of her courage to get her to this elegant, toasty London parlor, for what she recalled most clearly about Mercia was that he was tall. Her husband had been tall.
    Tall men had self-possession and reach. Neither was a good thing.
    Thin as he was, Mercia looked even taller now than he had when he’d danced with Gilly upon the occasion of his wedding to Helene. His eyes, the famous Severn blue eyes, were sunken, and his blond hair was pulled back into a loose, old-fashioned queue. Helene had been uncomfortable with what she called her husband’s cool intensity. She’d said he was too serious by half, and much taken with himself.
    Coming from Helene, who’d been taken with herself indeed, the comment had lodged in Gilly’s memory. Greendale had been nothing, if not taken with himself.
    “Tell me about my daughter.”
    His tone was encouraging, and he’d asked the right question—or given the right command—but Gilly had the sense he couldn’t recall the name of his only surviving child. Or maybe he could, and saying that name pained him too much.
    “Lucille will be eight this summer,” Gilly said. “She’s very bright, she reads well, shows some talent at the piano, and is much loved by her governess and nursery maid.”
    Also by her mother’s cousin, or Gilly would not be bearding this gaunt, quiet lion in his den.
    Though how many lions drank nursery tea and folded a lady’s wrap as if it held precious memories?
    “And yet,” His Grace said quietly, “the girl suffers some problem, else you wouldn’t be calling upon me at such an unusual hour.”
    He made a simple deduction, rather than delivered a scold, so Gilly gave him an honest answer. “I was told you sleep during the day, Your Grace, and you’re refusing all callers.”
    Which admission would alert the duke to the fact that his staff was more concerned about him than about discretion. Gilly felt a spike of protectiveness toward her host, in part because everybody needed privacy, and in part because he was so quiet. He spoke quietly, his movements were quiet, and his eyes were the most quiet of all.
    Greendale had seldom been silent for long, and all his tirades had had the same focus.
    “And now,” His Grace said, putting down his empty teacup, “you will have the more daring among my peers calling upon me at night.”
    Was he making a jest? “Not if you come down to Severn with me.”
    And again, silence fell between them, filled only with the soft roar of the fire. The lack of conversation should have unnerved Gilly, but the quiet moments allowed her to truly study him.
    The Times had heralded Mercia’s return with front-page articles, but all they’d really said was he’d been held by the French and denied the privileges of an officer. That was likely male code for something more