Where to go from there? He could see the question in her gray-blue eyes, could only wonder why she was being so very careful.

“Your commander…” She hesitated, then asked, “What arm of the services were you in, Charles?”

Very few people knew. “Neither the army nor the navy.”

“Which regiment?”

“Theoretically one of the Guards.”

“In reality?”

If he didn’t tell her, she wouldn’t understand the rest.

She frowned. “Where were you for all those years?”

“Toulouse.”

She blinked; her frown deepened. “With your mother’s relatives?”

He shook his head. “They’re from Landes. A similar distance south, so my coloring and accent were acceptable, but far enough away for me to be relatively safe from being recognized.”

She saw, bit by bit realized. Her gaze grew distant, her expression slowly blanked, then she snapped her gaze, now appalled, back on him. “You were a spy?”

He’d steeled himself, so didn’t flinch. “An unoffocial agent of His British Majesty’s government.”

The kettle chose that moment to shriek. His words had sounded sophisticated, dismissively cynical, but he suddenly wanted that tea.

She rose, still staring, lips slightly parted. Her eyes were round, but he couldn’t read the expression in them. Then she turned away, snagged the kettle, and poured the boiling water over the leaves. Setting the kettle down, she swirled the pot, then left it to steep.

She turned back to him. Her gaze searched his face; she rubbed her hands down her breeches and slowly sat again. This time she leaned forward; the candlelight reached her eyes.

“All those years?”

He hadn’t, until that moment, known how she’d react, whether she’d be horrified by the dishonor many considered spying to be, or whether she’d understand.