“Sir Griffin Barry,” Maydrop said quickly. “I gather that His Grace and Sir Griffin were partners in the last few years. I have placed Sir Griffin in the rose bedchamber.”

“Excellent,” Theo said, rather faintly.

She had an unnerving wish to run out the front door as fast as she could. Her husband had not only returned, but he had also brought with him his companion in crime—and hadn’t Mr. Badger said that Barry had a more invidious reputation than did James himself?

The constables would be pounding on their door by luncheon tomorrow. She hadn’t missed her mother’s support so keenly in years. Even the old duke would have been a welcome presence at her shoulder.

“Your Grace, I believe that you plan to attend the—”

But Theo raised her hand, and Maydrop’s words broke off. “Later, if you please.” She must confront James before she turned tail and ran.

She walked into the library before she could change her mind.

She had redecorated the room after James’s father died. There was nothing left to remind her of the moment of humiliation that broke her marriage, when the old duke had met her eyes as she knelt before his son, performing a service that made her shudder to even consider now.

At that time the room had been all dark wood and crimson curtains, the only artwork portraits of long-deceased hunting dogs. These days, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves alternated with white paneling with periwinkle blue insets, each painted with a different set of fantastic images inspired by the discoveries at Pompeii.

The curtains, needless to say, were woven on Ryburn looms. They too were striped blue and white, with small flowers running down the blue.

Any remaining china shepherdesses that had escaped the former duke’s fury had long since been banished to the attics; instead, one’s eyes landed on Ashbrook ceramics, whose Greek and Roman themes provided a counterpoint to the grotesques painted on the wall.

Theo knew exactly what she was doing when she inspected the room rather than look at the man who occupied it: she was so seized by nerves that she was reassuring herself by cataloguing her own successes.

James was seated at the desk she used for her accounts, apparently writing a letter. He had tossed aside his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

Theo took a deep breath. “Good evening, James,” she said, walking forward.

As she spoke, he looked up from the sheet of foolscap before him and rose. Apparently he hadn’t entirely abandoned the conduct of an English gentleman.

“Daisy,” he said. He moved from behind the desk and kissed the hand she held out.

As he straightened she studied him closely, taking her time about it. “My name is Theo,” she told him in a voice that brooked no misunderstanding. “Goodness, you’ve changed, James. No wonder I didn’t recognize you this morning. May I offer you a glass of sherry?” She walked over to the cluster of decanters and removed the top of one.

“I rarely drink,” James said at her shoulder. She jumped and dropped the glass stopper. His hand shot out and he caught it.

“May I?” he asked, taking the decanter from her hand and pouring her a glass of sherry. “I see you have three kinds of brandy, which suggests that you are as unlike other ladies in your taste for spirits as you are in other respects.”

Theo wondered briefly if he was trying to discomfit her by obliquely alluding to her lack of English prettiness, but she shrugged off the thought, taking a heady sip of sherry and letting it warm her throat. “Your cousin Cecil is very fond of cognac and I keep it for him,” she said, walking over to a couch that replaced the rococo sofa she had thrown away.

She sat down and watched as the stranger who called himself her husband poured himself a glass of port, then came to join her. As he approached, she tipped her head back the better to see his full height. “You’ve grown astonishly large.”

“Yes.” He sat beside her and she edged away from the heat of his thigh. “In my early twenties I suddenly sprouted a few more inches. My only explanation is the sea air.”

Suddenly the sofa felt very small indeed. Theo took a comforting sip of wine, then leaned toward him and peered at his cheek. “I gather that is a poppy under your eye?”

He nodded.

Though she would die rather than admit it, the tattoo had a kind of primitive appeal. “Does Sir Griffin have the same emblem carved on his face?” Really, she was handling this tremendously well. How many women had the opportunity to speak to a pirate, let alone have two under their roof? And surely she must be the only English gentlewoman to find herself married to a man of this profession. It would all work out, she told herself. James would leave England—surely he would rather leave than be hanged—and her life would return to normal.

“He does,” James replied, as casually as if she were inquiring about a cravat. Not that he was wearing a cravat. His neck emerged from his shirt as bare and brown as lads working in the fields.

“Are you concerned that your adopted profession might lead to some unpleasantness?” she asked.

“Of what nature?”

“Given the unorthodox, and I daresay, illegal nature of your activities, I would think that the constables will call on us. Or officers from the Royal Navy. Whoever it is who deals with pirates.”

He settled back in the corner of the sofa and grinned at her over his wineglass. “What should I be worried about?”

“Dancing at the end of a rope? To the best of my knowledge, piracy is punishable by death.” She took another sip of sherry.

“Yes,” James said, sounding perfectly unconcerned. “I suppose that is the case. Under normal circumstances.”

“And you are not worried?”

“Not in the least. How were the last seven years for you, Theo?”

“Wearying,” she said, choosing candor over his evasive answers. “Life was quite difficult after you left the country. But you’ll be happy to learn that Ryburn Weavers and Ashbrook Ceramics are now thriving concerns. Once I had both of them on an even keel, I moved to Paris, from whence I returned last year. I had thought—” She caught herself.

“You had thought to hand the estate over to Cecil,” James said. “I cannot blame you for wanting to see the back of it. Shamefully, I planned never to return partly for that reason. In fact, it was one of the reasons I changed my name. I thought to ensure that no one ever put together the Earl and the Earl of Islay.”

“How lucky for all of us that you changed your mind,” she said, not trying very hard to sound enthusiastic.

He looked at her silently for a long moment. “Are you angry because I didn’t inform you of my return before interrupting the proceedings at Lords? My ship docked late at night, and I thought not to wake the household. I think of Lords as being men only, and it did not occur to me to look for women in the audience during the less-than-thrilling process of proving my identity.”

“A wife is easily forgotten,” she agreed.

He hesitated. Then: “I stopped thinking of you as my spouse some years ago, as I’m sure you did of me.”

His words took Theo’s breath away. Somehow she hadn’t stopped thinking of James as her husband, though Lord knows, she wished she had.

Temper was rising up her spine again, but she hadn’t reached the age of twenty-four for nothing. “I see,” she said quietly. “If you are wondering whether I betrayed you in the years of your absence, I did not.”