“Twenty-eight days was more than enough,” Colin said.

“Was it only twenty-eight?” I asked.

“And a half. Why do you think I insisted we take the morning train to Paris?”

I slipped into a chair across from him at a table where a silver-haired gentleman was already settled. He’d risen and bowed to me—over me, more like, as his height was extraordinary—and then offered his hand to my husband. “Sir Richard St. Clare,” he said, introducing himself with a stiff nod. Colin shook his hand and introduced us both. “Hargreaves, eh? I know of your work. Your reputation is sterling in diplomatic circles.”

“The compliment is much appreciated,” Colin said, sitting next to me.

“And much deserved. But we shan’t bore your lovely wife with talk of business.” He turned to me. “How far are you traveling?”

“All the way to Constantinople,” I said, then leaned forward, a broad smile stretching across my face. “First real stop on our wedding trip.”

“Excellent.” He rubbed together thick-knuckled hands. “And where else shall you visit?”

“I’ve been promised Ephesus,” I said, raising an eyebrow at Colin, who was a vision of handsome perfection in his evening kit.

“I’ll take you to Philadelphia and Sardis as well,” Colin said. “So long as you have clothing suitable for exploring ruins.”

“You wouldn’t have married me if I didn’t,” I said, wishing I could grab his knee under the table and feeling a hot rush of color flood my cheeks at this reference to a conversation we’d had nearly two years ago on the Pont Neuf in Paris, the night he’d fallen in love with me in spite of his erroneous belief I was not in possession of a wardrobe suitable for adventurous travel. The gown I was wearing now—of the palest pink silk embroidered with silver thread from which hung teardrop-shaped crystals—did not suggest I was a lady ready for the wilderness, but I was not the sort of woman who should be judged by her clothing. An appreciation for high fashion does not preclude possession of common sense.