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“What about your mother’s heart, though? Isn’t it too much, to ask her to sacrifice both sons for the Crown?”

“There’s no sacrifice. I’ll see Arthur safely home.” The prow’s tapping set his teeth on edge. Isobel set his teeth on edge. She never placated. She never appeased. She never showed deference. She’d challenge a Pemberton, or a bowl of porridge. Or a dragon.

He stood to prevent further questioning. “First, I’ll see us safely from this tunnel.”

He braced his legs and stretched up his arms. His knuckles struck rock, the point of a stalactite. Which meant the roof was not much further up.

“You touched the top, didn’t you?” Isobel asked as he sat.

“I didn’t.”

‘You’re lying.”

“Not precisely.”

Their sides pressed together, and he felt her ribs expand. He expected her to stand, to try to ascertain for herself how high they’d risen, how much room remained, but instead she spoke.

“Do you keep a mistress?”

This new line of questioning caught him off guard.

“Erm.” He rubbed his forehead. “Not at present.”

“You have then, in the past?”

“Certain arrangements existed, at one point, yes.” He frowned. “But if you mean to draw a parallel with my father, let me remind you I am not married and betray no one.”

“Certain arrangements,” she repeated. “Plural. How many mistresses?”

“They’re not all one’s mistresses, are they?” he responded automatically then winced. “I mean, a night with a merry widow does not a certain arrangement make.” Now his wince was a grimace. Isobel inspired him to make the most ridiculous hashes.

“We’ll leave it there,” he said stiffly.

“These merry nights,” Isobel ignored his injunction. “Have there been many of those?”

“Who can remember, really?” He rubbed his forehead harder. “It all blurs together.”

“The women blur together.”

He could hear her scowl.

“No, no, not the women.” He waved his hand. “The nights, the clubs, the bottles of whiskey. The women are each distinct, of course. I remember them all. I’m not a scoundrel. And it’s not as though there have been hundreds.”

“Hundreds?”

“Not hundreds, I said.”

“Scores?”

“No.” Despite the cold, sweat was sliding under his collar.

“Dozens?”

“I don’t think we should⁠—”

“So it’s dozens.”

“Miss MacKinnon,” he tried, belatedly, to fall back on decorum, “this conversation is most improper.”