She winked at me and laughed her sweet, silvery laugh. When she sobered, she wagged a finger at me.
“I should be very cross with you. Never once in your letters did you mention the delicious Conte di Fornacci. I think you are the black horse.”
I blinked at her. “Ah. Dark horse. Yes, I suppose. It was all very simple really. He is a friend to Lysander and Plum. He very kindly showed us all over Florence, and when we moved on to Lombardy, it seemed quite natural to invite him along.”
“Hmm.” That one little syllable held a world of meaning within it.
I gave her a severe look. “He is a friend.”
“And do you mean to return to Italy with this friend?” she asked, drawing out the last word ever so slightly.
My cheeks were hot again. “I do not know. It was discussed, but circumstances may have changed now,” I replied, thinking of Violante’s new expectations. “He has asked me,” I mumbled into my cup.
Hortense tipped her head and gave me a long, thoughtful look. “You should take a lover.”
I choked on my chocolate, and it was a long moment before I regained my composure. “How precisely did we move from you possibly becoming my stepmother to advising me on myamours?”
She tapped my knee. “I am a woman of the world,chérie.There is nothing I have not seen, and very little I have not done. Think on what I have said.”
“I imagine I should have trouble forgetting it.”
Hortense pulled a face. “Now you will be English and proper again. We are not supposed to speak of such things. Very well. I too can be English. We shall talk about the weather. It is cold.”
In spite of myself I laughed. “You are very silly, Hortense. And very good to care what happens to me.”
For an instant, the cool mask slipped, and I saw real affection in her eyes. “I like to think if I had ever had a daughter, she might have been something like you.”
I reached out and took her hand. It was smooth and supple in mine, and smelled of summer roses.
“Of course, she would dress better. That gown,” she said, clucking her tongue. “So severe, so masculine in the cut.”
I wrinkled my nose at her. “I happen to like this gown. I bought it in Milan. It is very smart.”
Hortense gave me the gently raised eyebrows that indicated disagreement, then squeezed my hand. “You used to call me Fleur, like my closest friends. You must do so again or I shall think you are cross with me.”
I rose and dropped a kiss on the top of her beautifully coiffed head. “I could never be cross with you. Now I must fly. I have nearly missed breakfast altogether.”
I moved to the door, but before my fingers touched the knob, she spoke. “He does not love her, you know. He never did.”
I went quite still, my back turned to her. “It is his own affair, Fleur. I am no part of it.”
“Still, I thought you should know. He has said nothing to me, of course, but I have known him since he was a boy. He has not changed so much that I cannot read him.”
A flash of memory from the previous night, his lips, his hands, his breath coming hard and ragged after he kissed me. Then I thought of Charlotte and the burden of guilt he still carried from our first investigation.
Ruthlessly, I pushed the thought of him away and reached for the knob.
“As I said, it is no affair of mine.”
She made no reply. I did not blame her. It was a foolish lie. It did not deserve a response.
* * *
As soon as I left Hortense’s room, I met Portia just coming from her room. Outwardly unruffled, her eyes were snapping and the tiny jet drops at her ears trembled violently.
“Oh, dear. Whatever is the matter?”
We fell into step as we descended the stairs.