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He rather expected sheepishness. He had received sheepishness from Antoine, who communicated it through the careful arrangement of coffee cups. He had received the more sophisticated version from Charlotte, who communicated it through the arrangement of sentences.

William did not look sheepish. There was only a slight frown and a sudden catching of breath like someone who had just remembered he had left a kettle in the oven. Still, since the Duke of Albemarle had never placed a kettle in the oven, it was a rather ridiculous expression.

"I'm glad you mentioned Miss Bonnechoix," William said. After reaching into his coat, he produced a letter. "She came to the house yesterday. Asked me to give you this."

The piece of paper was folded with no particular skill, the corners not quite aligned, the crease not quite straight. He could have told Louise how to fold a letter properly if she had asked.

He took it.

How had William been in this room for fifteen minutes with a message from Louise in his pocket and said nothing? Fifteen minutes of dueling pistols and Vienna and Arlesford and not a word.

Oblivious to all this, William left.

Rodrick's hands were not entirely steady as he turned the letter over. Her handwriting on the outside—the firm, disciplined hand he had been reading for two years, from the dossier, from the intercepted correspondence, the hand he had described in his first briefing as decisive, no unnecessary ornamentation, each letter committed before the next begins. He had written that. In another life. When she had been a package, and he had been professional about it.

He opened it, hoping it was a challenge to a duel. It would be a chance to see her without telling her that—What? That he wanted her, all of her? Even if she only gave him crumbs of her trust? A duel then. At least for that, he would be prepared. He had the pistols. He could give her both of them and invite her to practice her aim at him from whatever distance she preferred. It was no less than he deserved.

Self-righteousness, he was discovering, was a spectacular bitch.

Rodrick,

You were right that night in camp. We shouldn't have made love. It changed everything.

He almost smiled. I'm always right, my foolish Princess.

He read on.

I was the one left moping about with feelings I can't manage. We should have kept our distance when it was still a possibility. Now that it is a necessity, I feel like cutting my heart out with my dagger.

Oh, Lou. Who knew you also had a dramatic streak in you?

I'm sorry I didn't trust you when you needed me to. Love is new to me.

It is new for me too…

I hope Vienna is better for you than France or England ever were.

Goodbye,

Louise B.

He looked at the goodbye for a long moment. He did not like the way she wrote goodbye.

Letter still in his hand, he strode to the front of the house, beat the footman to the door handle, and emerged, blinking, onto the sunlit street. He looked both ways. Where was the stick in the mud when one actually needed him?

He caught the duke as he was entering the carriage.

"When did she give this to you?" He heard his voice come out differently than he had intended.

"Yesterday," William said. "She came to say goodbye."

That word again. Goodbye. Arriving when he was not ready for it. How could parting from a woman like Louise ever be good? His heart pounded. Louder than the carriages moving on the indifferent street.

"Where is she going?" He heard his voice come out level. How the fuck had he managed that when it felt as if he had just swallowed his pistol barrel?

William would not have given him that supercilious look if he knew the state of Rodrick's chest.

"In what world are you living? Napoleon surrendered to the Allies yesterday. He is traveling to Rochefort. He will board a ship to Saint Helena." He paused. "Miss Bonnechoix went with him."