Strange, that the thought of him still evoked such bitterness in her. She had thought death would have conquered that, transmuting bitterness to grief and recriminations to guilt. For a time it had. But like an alchemist’s experiments, the transformation had proved illusory.

There was no point in thinking about Freddy, she told herself harshly. He was dead. It was Alex who needed to be kept alive.

Perhaps she could lock him in his quarters and prevent him from appearing at the appointed time.

No. He would hate her for it, and Fiske would gloat at Alex’s supposed cowardice in fearing to meet him. Besides, knowing Alex, he would calmly and methodically find a way out. He was too competent by half.

Far better, she could confine Fiske in his quarters. A crazy smile tugged at the corners of Penelope’s lips. It made the muscles in her face hurt. She had got out of the habit of smiling. But it felt good.

The plan was just crazy enough to work. Penelope snuck a glance sideways from under her hat brim. It would be a double revenge, preventing Fiske from meeting Alex and tainting him with the imputation of cowardice at the same blow. It was perfect, and so much easier than trying to immure Alex. It wouldn’t take much. Some poppy juice in Fiske’s after-dinner brandy, a whispered suggestion of an assignation — and then the key turning in the lock, leaving him to sleep it off till well past dawn.

Penelope felt herself buoyed by a new sense of purpose and resolution. She might have killed Freddy, but she could save Alex. Even if he wouldn’t necessarily thank her for it. Well, too bad for him, she thought, with a stirring of her old imperiousness. At least he would be alive to not thank her.

It was dark by the time their cavalcade passed under the great gate of the Residency. Alex was nowhere to be seen — presumably preparing for a meeting that would never take place, Penelope thought with satisfaction. She submitted to being lifted down from her horse by Fiske, simpering at him for all she was worth.

“Penelope!” someone cried out, and Fiske, whose hands had lingered longer on her waist than strictly necessary, nearly dropped her.

The slight form of a young woman raced down the steps of the Residency, holding up her skirt with one hand and waving the other in animated greeting, her blond curls frothing in front of her face with her joyful progress.

Penelope squinted in the uncertain light. Heavens, what with Alex and snakes and Freddy’s death, her mind was beginning to go. She was starting to hallucinate.

The hallucination skidded to a halt in front of Penelope, grabbing Penelope’s gloved hand in an affectionate clasp.

“Oh, Penelope! I’m so glad to see you!” exclaimed Charlotte.

If she was a hallucination, she was a surprisingly corporeal one. Penelope inched her fingers out of Charlotte’s clasp.

“What — ?” she began.

Lady Charlotte Lansdowne — no, the Duchess of Dovedale now, Penelope reminded herself — beamed at her, glowing like the royal fireworks all going off in unison. “We’re on our way to Mysore, so Robert can show me where he lived. We’ve been to Calcutta already on the way, and some lovely little villages, and seen such sights and ruins. And aren’t the elephants wonderful? I hadn’t thought they could be nearly so big,” said Charlotte all in rush, bouncing up and down in her enthusiasm.

Her very evident happiness hit Penelope like a door in the face. Confronted with Penelope’s stony countenance, some of the glow faded from Charlotte. She looked searchingly at her old friend. “Pen, what’s wrong?”

“Freddy is dead,” Penelope said brusquely.

Charlotte’s hand flew to her mouth, which had formed a perfect O . “Oh, Pen.”

‘Oh, Freddy,’ more like,” said Penelope, with deliberate callousness, even as she hated herself for doing so. Venting her anger at Charlotte was like kicking a kitten. “He’s the one in the box.”

Charlotte’s lips folded closed over what was clearly about to have been another Oh, Pen . Penelope wished she wouldn’t do that; even if the intent behind it was good, it had always grated on Penelope’s nerves like nails on a slate.

Instead, Charlotte turned to a servant, and said, with charming diffidence, “Please, might we have some tea?” before turning back to Penelope with obvious concern in her big, cloudy eyes. When had Charlotte acquired that unconscious air of command? More had changed than just a ring on her third finger.

The source of it all stepped out from behind her, coming more staidly down the steps. “You might want something a bit stronger than that,” said Charlotte’s husband.

Penelope eyed him warily. Back in England, they had not gotten along. He had blamed her for the infatuation of his friend, Tommy Fluellen — heavens, it wasn’t as though she had asked the man to follow her around — and she had made no secret of her conviction that his designs on Charlotte were less than honorable. So he had proved her wrong. It had seemed a sure-enough proposition at the time.

Respect for the dead — or at least respect for a death, since he had no respect for Freddy — tempered whatever residual resentment the new Duke of Dovedale might have held for her.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said.

“No, you’re not,” said Penelope baldly. “You had nothing but contempt for Freddy.”

“Like you,” blurted out Charlotte. Coloring to her eyebrows, she clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, Pen. I didn’t mean — that is . . . Oh, dear. But it’s just that you did criticize him. Rather a lot.” She hastily shut her mouth before she could put her foot down it any farther.

With friends like these, who needed poisonous snakes? It didn’t help that Charlotte was right.

“And you never criticize your husband?” she said frostily.

“Only when I deserve it,” said the duke, genially enough, but there was a hint of steel under it, and an unspoken warning in the way he threaded his arm around Charlotte’s waist.

Penelope wanted nothing more than to fling herself down on the steps and bang her fists against the cold stone until her hands cracked and bled. She wanted to howl like a child in a temper tantrum, stamping her feet and shouting that it wasn’t fair. Why did everyone else get cosseted and coddled and protected while she was left to fend for herself? It was always the lumpy part of the porridge for old Penelope.

Fleetingly, Penelope remembered the way Alex had looked in the caravan courtyard, striking out for her honor. But that wasn’t really for her, any more than those days on the road had been an expression of anything more than the desires of the moment. Alex was in the habit of playing protector. And he didn’t like Fiske.

“You called for tea?” said Penelope tightly.

The duke’s arm dropped from around his wife’s waist.

Penelope didn’t miss the private look that passed between the two. It made her feel like a spoiled child in the presence of indulgent adults prepared to humor her so far as might be necessary to ensure general tranquility. Penelope’s throat tightened. It would have hurt less if she hadn’t known herself to be behaving like a spoiled child.

Her husband had just died. Didn’t that count for anything?

She could almost hear the mocking laughter. Like you , Charlotte had said, silly, absentminded Charlotte, who always saw more than was convenient and didn’t have the good sense to hide it. And it was true, all of it. When it came down to it, she didn’t like Freddy. She had never liked Freddy. But she had married him anyway. Somehow, that made it all worse.

“Shall we?” said Charlotte timidly, threading her arm through Penelope’s and supporting her steps, as though she were an invalid. Considering that Penelope was a good head taller than Charlotte, it was a particularly futile gesture. If Penelope went over, they would both go splat.

“Why not?” said Penelope bitingly. “One must never underestimate the restorative powers of tea.”

She let Charlotte lead her into the Residency, into a small parlor on the side of the house, pleasantly cool in the peaceful dusk. The visiting duchess had already made the room her own, novels piled carelessly on a side table, a journal marked with a red ribbon lolling open on the settee. The tea was waiting for them, all the proper accoutrements laid out neatly on an octagonal table. Charlotte busied herself preparing the tea, waiting until the leaves were steeping before saying tentatively, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Penelope prowled restlessly back and forth, heedless of the caked mud being transferred from her hem to the Resident’s prized Persian carpet. “I want it all to go away. I want to go to bed and wake up and find that none of it ever happened. That’s what I want.”

“Your marriage or Lord Frederick’s death?”

“Both.”

“Oh, Pen.”

“Don’t ‘oh, Pen’ me!”

Charlotte sat down abruptly in a chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

Penelope pressed her eyes tightly together. “I know. I do know. It’s just . . . hard. All of it.”

She looked at Charlotte sitting there so placidly. Charlotte, who had found her Own True Love — one could practically hear the capital letters every time Charlotte looked at her husband. But Charlotte had believed in her duke, even when circumstances had militated against him, and others, including Penelope, had advised her not to trust him farther than she could throw him. Charlotte had earned her happy ending.

If circumstances had been different, might she and Alex — no. She wouldn’t let herself start thinking rubbish. It might be all flowers and poetry in Charlotte’s world, but it wasn’t in hers.