The Spanish oak and the embroidered silk coverlet of the bed in his rooms in Lisbon. The erratic light of the candle that dangled from his nerveless fingers. Honoria, eyes blue-black and wide with pleading, lips parted, hair spilling over her naked breasts. His own breathing quickened, his thoughts a tumble of confusion, his body taut with unthinking response. He looked across the familiar jumble of the old drawing room at his wife. At the sea-green eyes that could see things he could keep hidden from most people. So that sometimes his only hope of escape was to barricade himself against her. Perhaps he should have known she'd guess about Honoria. She'd always been able to piece things together quickly, but how the devil— "She did the same thing to Simon the night he arrived at Dunmykel," Mélanie said. His fingers thudded against the keys of the pianoforte. "What?" She crossed the room to him. "Listen, Charles, I don't know how this fits with the Elsinore League, but I think I understand at least some of what's been going on." She scanned his face, the way she did with the children when she was forced to break disappointing news.
