“I suppose so,” a woman’s voice said in a crisp British accent. “I can’t think why he would simply disappear like this just before dinner.”
“Penrose is a scholar, Mademoiselle Banks,” Griffe said. “Scholars become engrossed in their studies, I understand, to the point of sheer distraction and forgetfulness. Perhaps he has gone, not to the gaming room, but to the library? Come along. We will find your mislaid fiancé.”
Fiancé?
Oh.
Griffe and Miss Banks passed by in a breeze of eau de cologne and silken rustles. Penrose didn’t move a muscle.
“Dreadfully rude of him.” The woman’s voice was sulky. “Once we are married, I’ll insist that he remedy his ways.”
“You may insist,” Griffe said, “but gentlemen rarely undergo change. Particularly after matrimony.”
Their footsteps receded.
Ophelia whispered to Penrose, “I recall you speaking of Miss Banks with great enthusiasm last month in Paris. Congratulations on your engagement. Your swift engagement.”
“Miss Flax. What I told you three weeks ago . . . I beg your pardon about all that.” Penrose adjusted his spectacles. “I was rash and, indeed, mistaken. Paris had gone to my head, I suppose.”
Ophelia swallowed. “I see.” He’d taken that I love you back. Well. What an absolute relief.
“I do hope I did not cause you a moment of unease,” he said.
“Unease? No. Certainly not. I will see you at dinner, I reckon.” Ophelia stepped out from behind the suits of armor and hurried out of the gallery, in the opposite direction that Griffe and Miss Banks had gone.
And this lump in her throat? Well, it must be that she was thirsty from traveling all day.