“Most of your wits,” countered Robert amiably.

“I packed them in my other case. Which, by the way, is still at the Rusty Dove in Dovedale village.” He turned to Charlotte. “What is a rusty dove?”

It was too clumsy a change of subject not to be deliberate. Charlotte liked him tremendously for it.

“It’s my guess that rusty is a corruption of ‘russet,’ ” she explained earnestly. “The first Duke of Dovedale had red hair, you see. Hence the Russet Dove, in compliment to the Duke.”

Lieutenant Fluellen looked critically at his friend. “If they named a tavern for Rob, it would have to be the Muddy Dove. Did you leave any dirt on the road between here and Dovedale, Rob?”

“An adage about pots and kettles comes to mind.” The Duke turned his attention back to Charlotte with an alacrity that would have been flattering if she hadn’t had the impression that his thoughts were a million miles away. Or perhaps only several thousand miles away, across the seas in India. “The Duchess mentioned visitors from India?”

“Only one,” Charlotte said apologetically, wishing she could offer him more. “Lord Frederick Staines.” Something in Robert’s expression prompted her to add, “Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation,” said Robert smoothly. “But I look forward to knowing him better. We old India hands tend to band together.”

Penelope swung her basket in the direction of the door. “Lord Frederick and the rest of the party should be outside already, cutting holly and mistletoe. If you join us, you can meet him.

“Although I imagine you’d probably prefer to stay by a hot fire at this point,” Charlotte put in, with a glance at her cousin’s chapped cheeks. Much as she wished he would join them, it would be cruel to drag him back out into the cold. It was silly to imagine that if she let him out of her sight, he would disappear again, like a cavalier in a daydream, riding back off into the haze of her imagination.