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“There’s a marquess of my acquaintance.” James broke her reverie. “He hosts fancy dress balls for a very select society.”

She looked at him. He was smiling a wicked smile.

“Not young misses, I’m guessing?”

“Men,” said James relishingly. “Men with a taste for the nameless act. Some attend in silk gowns and chignons and dance the ladies’ parts.”

“You never mentioned this before.” Had he thought her too puritanical? She sat up straighter and tried to modify her face into an expression of careless sophistication. It was only a temporary success. Her next thought rounded her eyes. “Do you wear a silk gown?”

“What do you think?” He leaned against the trellis, batting his lashes.

“Goodness,” she murmured, struck by his elegant pose. No use pretending she wasn’t amazed. When he held his head just so, she could picture his strong-boned leanness set off by a low-cut neckline, green silk brocade so that his eyes glowed emerald.

“I think you’d look stunning,” she breathed.

“Oh.” He seemed slightly taken aback. “I expected something more left-handed.” He rolled his shoulders, a pleased, preening sort of motion. “I do look all right.” He met her gaze and his turned thoughtful. “It feels like a costume, though. More than this does.” He gestured to his evening jacket. “For a few of those gowned dancers, it might be the other way round.”

“You and Griffith,” she said slowly. “You share common ground, or at least an understanding. That’s why he told you first.”

“It was happenstance, really. A series of events led me to confide in him. He, in turn, confided in me. Fair play, you know. Trust.”

Muriel’s stomach dipped. Fair play. Trust. She hadn’t shown Griffith either.

“Blast.” She shot to her feet. “I’ve made a hash of things. I never even admitted there wasn’t a caterpillar on his lapel!”

“Is that a euphemism?” James drew his brows together. “Or are you actually talking about an insect?”

“There wasn’t an insect.” She turned toward the hotel, a dark mass against the dimming sky. Lights twinkled in the windows. She’d propped her bicycle against the wall, behind that potted palm on the terrace.

She launched forward and almost tripped on the hem of her skirt. God, skirts were abominably long if they weren’t indecently short. She yanked it up to midcalf.

“Where are you going?”

“To the engine house.” She called over her shoulder, breaking into a run. “I have to tell him.”

“About the caterpillar?”

“Forget the caterpillar,” she called.

Griffith had asked a question. Can we start there?

She’d clammed up. She’d nattered about trees.

But it wasn’t too late.

Within a quarter hour, she’d coasted out of town and was pedaling after the weak orange light cast by her lamp, flying through the fields.

There was no light shining from the engine house.

Perhaps because of the conversation at dinner, she’d anticipated a beacon, a blaze in the night, like Griffith lived in the bloody Pharos of Alexandria.

Instead, she arrived to a dark tower.

She swung off the bicycle, shaky from exertion, craning her neck. Was he up there? Asleep? Surely it was closer to ten than eleven.

She extinguished the flame in the lamp, lowered the bicycle onto its side. She went boldly to the door and knocked. Nothing. She stepped back.

“Griff,” she tried, and then, louder but more hesitant: “Kit?”