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Neal shook his head. “I told her to meet us at the gardener’s cottage.” The cottage, a lovely little building, with an espaliered fig tree framing the door, had been standing empty, and so Alan had offered it to Neal for the duration of his stay in town.

“She’d rather see the grounds,” he said, and knew it was true. “Like-minded.” He sighed, and Alan raised a brow.

“You will propose, then, as planned?”

Neal let the leaf fall, tracking its topsy-turvy descent and cursing himself. He’d left London intending to propose to Muriel Pendrake on the Lizard peninsula.

But everything had gotten mixed-up along the way.

When he had finally arrived at the Lizard, with the correct Mrs. Pendrake, they’d spent days poring over rare algae. No intimate dinners. No picnics. They’d attended gatherings hosted by birdwatchers. They’d gone for rambles with the botanically inclined headmasters of local grammar schools.

Neal rubbed the back of his neck. He’d no deuced idea if he’d propose.

“Hark.” Alan gripped Neal’s shoulder, turning him.

Muriel had appeared, framed between the poplars at the other end of the rose garden.

When Neal reached her, he pressed her hand. It had only been two days since they’d parted company at Paddington Station, but he felt the warmth of their reunion.

“Hallo.” She pumped his arm hugely, then waved at Alan, who approached at a snail’s pace.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I decided to walk and got tremendously lost. I ended up flagging down a gentleman who’d been in the diplomatic service in China. We had a fascinating conversation about the laying of telegraphic cables. Gorgeous garden!” she called out to Alan as he came into range. “I think I came in the wrong way, but I loved that little bridge by the yew hedge.”

In a matter of minutes, Alan and Muriel were strolling down the path like bosom companions.

Neal let the two of them pull ahead and sat on the edge of a fountain. He’d invited Muriel expressly to introduce her to Alan. Alan had the power to get her “Recollections” into the right hands. The question was—would he exercise that power? It depended on Muriel, on whether she, or her writing, impressed him.

As Neal watched them stroll, he could tell from Alan’s gestures, his laughter, that he needn’t worry.

Alan had taken a shine to Muriel.

Well, why the hell not? He’d taken a shine to her too. His mother would take a shine to her. His sisters, his brothers, his cousins—everyone would take a bloody shine to her. Wasn’t that what he wanted?

When he finally stood and caught up with them by the tulip beds, Muriel was all smiles. She had an undeniably lovely smile. She was an undeniably lovely woman. It was undeniably lovely to be in her presence.

A butterfly fluttered past, winging for the trees, as though to underscore the point. She watched the butterfly with satisfaction.

Of course she knew it was a Vanessa cardui. They both did.

“We’re off to Otis & Boyd’s.” Alan named the publishers and shot Neal a sideways look. “Otis is always in his office this time of day. He’s mad for travel books, and he doesn’t mind a bit of heft.”

“Capital!” Neal tried to telegraph his thanks to Alan, and his enthusiasm to Muriel. He nodded at them both. “You two do that, then. I’ll peel off to Varnham. Better if I check over the Borneo shipment sooner than later.”

A silence descended, threaded with the buzzing of bees.

“You’re not coming with us?” Muriel sounded not peevish, but disappointed.

“I’d just be in the way, wouldn’t I?” Neal felt heat prickling his neck. Nothing to do with the sun. Everything to do with his awareness that he was, perhaps, acting a cad.

He glanced at Alan, but Alan had arranged his face into a careful blank. No opinion here.

In the libretto, Neal ended up with Lavinia.

But in real life, Neal and Muriel belonged together.

He’d already lived a libretto. He’d made too many dramatic mistakes. He’d turned his mother’s hair white. He’d missed his father’s final months, missed his very funeral. He’d led his best friend into a viper pit. He’d entered into disastrous affairs. He needed to make a sensible choice. And yet . . .

He’d fallen in love with a married woman he’d never see again.