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so hungry. “Then we shall have a nice visit instead. I could share with you news of our travels thus far.”
    “I should rest,” Pamela whispered, letting her eyelids droop. Any topic of conversation that did not revolve around her was usually too tiresome. “If I shan’t have a harpist, then nothing but dreams can comfort me now. Tomorrow, I shall tell you about my letter.”
    Calliope wasn’t interested in any letter that her cousin received. In fact, she was already looking forward to leaving at first light. “If only you could. Likely, we will be gone before you awaken.”
    “I’m certain it was one of those letters,” her cousin continued as if Calliope hadn’t spoken. “You remember, don’t you? They’d caused quite the scandal years ago, but I can’t think of the name. Cupid’s letters? No, that wasn’t it . . . ”
    Calliope’s heart stuttered to a halt.
    There was, perhaps, one letter that she was interested in reading. Could it be that her cousin had received a letter such as that?
    No. Surely, not. There hadn’t been any reported for years now. In fact, Calliope had thought the author had either died or married one of the other letter recipients. Secretly, she’d mourned for him for months, wearing only gray and lavender frocks.
    “The Casanova letters,” Calliope whispered, a tremor coursing through her.
    “Oh, yes. That’s what they were called.” Pamela lifted her arms, expecting Calliope to tuck the coverlet around her. “It is a pity that you are leaving so soon. The letter came as such a surprise too. I’m certain no other married woman has ever received one from him.”
    This was the first instance Calliope had heard of as well. Curious, more than she cared to admit, she was even willing to endure servitude in order to hear more.
    Leaning down, she situated the blankets over her cousin. “We could talk about the letter now. Or if you are too tired, perhaps you could direct me to it and I could . . . read the letter to you while you rest.”
    “What a lovely thought. You would make a very good companion for me, cousin,” Pamela said, offering a regal smile.
    Calliope bit back a rise of annoyance. “You are too kind. Though now that I think on it, I would enjoy reading to you.”
    “I’m afraid Mother moved the letter.” Pamela smoothed her hands over the velvet. “She worried that distraction was hindering my recovery.”
    “I’d be more than happy to retrieve it for you, if you would but direct me.”
    “Perhaps one of the servants knows where it is.” Her cousin flitted her fingers toward the opposite end of the room and closed her eyes. “Oh, I have done too much. The weariness is overtaking me. I must rest. Please consider staying, cousin.”
    Consider staying? Here, to act as companion to her cousin? Absolutely not.
    Not to mention, staying would nearly demand that she engage in conversation with Brightwell eventually.
    She couldn’t possibly stay. And yet—at the risk of sounding very much like a character in one of her novels—she wanted to see that letter more than life itself.
    O ut in the hall, Calliope released her pent-up frustration in a growl. In the next instant, she heard an answering chuckle. Rafe Danvers stood down the corridor, angling his head to light a cheroot from one of the wall sconces.
    “Pleasant visit with your cousin, Miss Croft?” He paused from smiling only long enough to draw on his cheroot, making the end glow bright orange.
    Embarrassed at being caught with her guard down, she lifted a hand to her neck. “Very, but I find that my throat is quite dry from all the . . . conversation.” She cleared it in an imitation of the growl, on the off chance that he’d believe her.
    His smile told her he didn’t. Much to his credit, however, he didn’t challenge her either. “I know of a perfect remedy. If you will allow me to show you the way.” He gestured with his cheroot toward a turn off the main hallway.
    “Time seems to have