“Well…no…” The valet looked pained. Gareth tried to take pity on him. Poor Mr. Phelps hadn’t realized that he would occasionally be acting as a butler when he’d interviewed for the position, and clearly he’d never been taught the butlerian skill of keeping one’s face devoid of all emotion.

“Mr. Phelps?” Gareth queried.

“He is a she, Mr. St. Clair.”

“A hermaphrodite, Mr. Phelps?” Gareth asked, just to see the poor fellow blush.

To his credit, the valet made no reaction save squaring his jaw. “It is Miss Bridgerton.”

Gareth jumped to his feet so quickly he smacked both his thighs on the edge of the desk. “Here?” he asked. “Now?”

Phelps nodded, looking just a little bit pleased at his discomfiture. “She gave me her card. She was rather polite about it all. As if it were nothing out of the ordinary.”

Gareth’s mind spun, trying to figure out why on earth Hyacinth would do something so ill-advised as to call upon him at his home in the middle of the day. Not that the middle of the night would have been better, but still, any number of busybodies might have seen her entering the building.

“Ah, show her in,” he said. He couldn’t very well turn her out. As it was, he would certainly have to return her to her home himself. He couldn’t imagine she’d come with a proper escort. She’d probably brought no one save that peppermint-eating maid of hers, and heaven knew she was no protection on the streets of London.

He crossed his arms as he waited. His rooms were set up in a square, and one could access his study from either the dining room or his bedchamber. Unfortunately, the day maid had chosen this day to provide the dining room floor with some sort of twice-yearly wax that she swore (rather vocally and on her dear mother’s grave) would keep the floor clean and ward off disease. As a result, the table had been shoved up against the door to the study, which meant that the only way in was through his bedroom.

Gareth groaned and shook his head. The last thing he needed was to picture Hyacinth in his bedroom.

He hoped she felt awkward passing through. It was the least she deserved, coming out here on her own.

“Gareth,” she said, appearing in the doorway.

And all his good intentions flew right out the window.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” she said, with such composure that he felt like a fool.

But still he plodded on. “Any number of people could have seen you. Have you no care for your reputation?”

She shrugged delicately, pulling off her gloves. “I’m engaged to be married. You can’t cry off, and I don’t intend to, so I doubt I’ll be forever ruined if someone catches me.”

Gareth tried to ignore the rush of relief he felt at her words. He had, of course, gone to great lengths to ensure that she could not cry off, and she had already said that she would not, but all the same, it was surprisingly good to hear it again.

“Very well,” he said slowly, choosing his words with great care. “Why, then, are you here?”

“I am not here to discuss your father,” she said briskly, “if that is what worries you.”

“I’m not worried,” he bit off.

She lifted one brow. Damn, but why had he chosen to marry the one woman in the world who could do that? Or at least the one woman of his acquaintance.

“I’m not,” he said testily.

She said nothing in direct reply, but she did give him a look that said she didn’t believe him for one instant. “I have come,” she said, “to discuss the jewels.”

“The jewels,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she replied, still in that prim, businesslike voice of hers. “I hope you have not forgotten about them.”

“How could I?” he murmured. She was starting to irritate him, he realized. Or rather, her demeanor was. He was still roiling inside, on edge just from the very sight of her, and she was utterly cool, almost preternaturally composed.

“I hope you still intend to look for them,” she said. “We have come too far to give up now.”

“Have you any idea where we might begin?” he asked, keeping his voice scrupulously even. “If I recall correctly, we seem to have hit a bit of a brick wall.”

She reached into her reticule and pulled out the latest clue from Isabella, which she’d had in her possession ever since they had parted a few days earlier. With careful, steady fingers she unfolded it and smoothed it open on his desk. “I took the liberty of taking this to my brother Colin,” she said. She looked up and reminded him, “You had given me your permission to do so.”

He gave her a brief nod of agreement.

“As I mentioned, he has traveled extensively on the Continent, and he seems to feel that it is written in a Slavic language. After consulting a map, he guessed that it is Slovene.” At his blank stare, she added, “It is what they speak in Slovenia.”

Gareth blinked. “Is there such a country?”

For the first time in the interview, Hyacinth smiled. “There is. I must confess, I was unaware of its existence as well. It’s more of a region, really. To the north and east of Italy.”

“Part of Austria-Hungary, then?”

Hyacinth nodded. “And the Holy Roman Empire before that. Was your grandmother from the north of Italy?”

Gareth suddenly realized that he had no idea. Grandmother Isabella had loved to tell him stories of her childhood in Italy, but they had been tales of food and holidays—the sorts of things a very young boy might find interesting. If she’d mentioned the town of her birth, he had been too young to take note. “I don’t know,” he said, feeling rather foolish—and in truth, somewhat inconsiderate—for his ignorance. “I suppose she must have been. She wasn’t very dark. Her coloring was a bit like mine, actually.”