“. . . is an unremarkable sight,” her mother continued. “However, when aroused, he will look something like this.”

From beneath the square of linen, her mother withdrew a vegetable. A slender, curved vegetable covered in taut, gleaming, deep purple skin.

Charlotte gawped in horror.

No. It could not be.

It was.

“An aubergine?”

“A cucumber would have served better, but the kitchen was out of them.”

“I see,” she said numbly.

“Good.” Mama laid her illustrations on the coverlet. “You may now ask your questions.”

Questions? She was supposed to supply questions? Only one question came to mind:

What on earth did I do to deserve this, and is it too late to repent?

Charlotte buried her face in her hands. She felt as though she were trapped in a nightmare. Or a very bad play. The Peach and the Eggplant, a tragic comedy in one endless act.

Fortunately, she had amassed enough friends, novels, and good sense to round out her understanding of sexual intercourse years ago. Because if she’d been forced to go on nothing but this . . .

She came to a bargain with herself. If Mama was going to subject her to this, Mama was going to pay for it. And there was only one way to exact revenge for this farce of a lesson.

To take it seriously.

She lifted her head and composed her expression into one of solemn, wide-eyed innocence. Reaching forward, she laid a single finger on the aubergine. “Is this the actual size?”

“Not every gentleman’s is quite that size. Some are smaller. Some may, in fact, be larger.”

“But most are not quite so purple, I hope.” She picked up the two items and pushed them against one another, frowning with confusion. “How does the aubergine fit inside the peach?”

Her mother’s face contorted. “The peach produces a sort of nectar to ease the way.”

“A nectar? How fascinating.”

“If the gentleman is skilled with his aubergine, it will not be so very painful.”

“What about the lady’s skill? Shouldn’t the bride to know how to please the aubergine?”

Her mother was quiet for a moment. “He might . . . That is, some gentlemen might wish to be . . . er . . . stroked.”

“Stroked. How does one stroke an aubergine? Is it like stroking a kitten?” Charlotte laid the egg-plant fruit across her palm and brushed it gently with a fingertip. “Or like strokes of a hairbrush?” She increased the vigor of her motions.

Mama gave a sort of strangled squawk.

“Here,” Charlotte said, thrusting the vegetable into her mother’s grip. “Why don’t you demonstrate?”

At the sight of Mama’s panicked, near-purple face, Charlotte lost her battle with laughter. She collapsed into giggles. Then she dove for cover, to avoid being beaten about the head with an eggplant.

“Charlotte!” Mama hurled the peach at her as she reached the door. “Whatever will I do with you?”

“Never, ever speak of aubergines or peaches again.”

Chapter Six

After checking his reflection in the mirror, Piers rinsed his blade in the basin and wiped the remaining shaving soap from his jaw.

If he requested it, Ridley would come in to help him dress for dinner. “Valet” was, after all, his nominal post, and perhaps Piers ought to have used him more in that capacity—if only for the sake of appearances. However, he’d begun the habit of shaving himself in his early years of service. He hadn’t liked trusting anyone to hold a blade to his throat.

Even now that he was a seasoned agent, he still preferred to shave himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Ridley with his life. He simply didn’t trust him to get his shave satisfactorily close.

As he pulled on his shirt and began to button his cuffs, something caught his eye. He paused, staring into the looking glass.

There was something outside his window.

Or someone outside his window.

Probably just the branch of a tree, he told himself. Perhaps an evening songbird or an early-rising bat.

Just in case, he was careful not to reveal any outward sign of alarm. He merely kept his eye slanted toward the reflection as he steadily buttoned his cuff.

Then he heard a noise.

A scraping noise.

He inhaled steadily. In the time it took to draw that one breath, he’d assessed all the potential weapons in the room. The straight razor, where it lay on the washstand, still glistening with water. The fire iron would make a formidable club. In a pinch, his readied cravat could make a decent garrote. He’d learned that the hard way one sultry night in Rome.

But he didn’t need to get creative tonight. Not with a loaded pistol waiting in the top drawer of the washstand. Unimaginative, perhaps—but effective.

The scraping noise became a scratching. Then a rattle. The intruder was easing the window open.

Piers kept his pulse calm, willing the blood in his veins to be cold as a stream in February. He slid open the drawer, moved aside a stack of folded handkerchiefs, and lifted the small brass pistol.

Then he waited. If he turned too soon, he would frighten his attacker away and expose himself to a second attempt.

Patience. Not yet.

A cool breeze wafted across the small hairs of his neck.

Now.

He spun on his heels, cocking the pistol as he turned, and leveled the weapon at his intruder.

She flung up a hand. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s only me.”

“Charlotte?”

He lowered the pistol at once, pushing the hammer forward.

A slim, stockinged leg eased through the open window, and then the rest of her tumbled through, landing on his floor with a dull thump. A heap of grass-stained muslin, muddy half boots, and disheveled golden hair.

“What the devil are you doing?” He held out a hand to her, tugging her up from the floor. “Where did you come from?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, her gaze ranging from his gaping collar to the untucked hem of his shirt.

The sight of her, looking breathless and flushed and smiling, took his blood from ice-floe cold to the temperature of erupting lava.

He was relieved. He was angry. He was, against all odds, amused.

Anything but cool and detached.

“You need to be in your room.”

“I’d love nothing more, but I can’t just now.” Her gaze dropped. “Ooh. Is that a Finch pistol?”