Dangerous to Know (29 page)

“Oh, heavens!” I said. “I'm beyond disappointed. Not, my dear, because I hate to lose to you, but because there's something painfully tragic about Sebastian taking up an honest occupation.”

“He won't be abandoning his other work altogether. On that you may depend. What convinced him in the end were some dubious statements I made implying he might receive immunity from other indiscretions if he helped me on occasion.”

“And will he?”

“Possibly,” he said.

I sighed. “Well, I suppose it's time I journey to Épernay, to Moët et Chandon, so I might collect your case of champagne. It's a pity they've no special vintage or extravagant batch designed for only the most extraordinary of celebrations. Because I do hope you know, my darling husband, this is the last time I'll lose a bet to you.”

“Perhaps you can convince them to pursue such a thing—a special-label vintage. Name it after that blind monk—what was his name?”

“Dom Pérignon, who said drinking champagne is like tasting the stars.”

“I'm sure he didn't put it quite so elegantly,” he said, slipping his arm around my waist and pulling me closer to him. “But then, I've yet to meet anyone, man or woman, who could call himself your true equal when it comes to turn of phrase or anything else.”

“Are you trying to flatter me?” I leaned close to him, so that my lips nearly brushed his.

“Precisely,” he said. “I've learned my lesson, Emily. Trying to protect you backfired horrendously and I can hardly breathe when I think of how close I came once again to losing you. If I'd only left you to your own devices, you'd have been safe in Rouen with me.”

“And Lucy wouldn't have been found, and George wouldn't have been caught.”

“We'd have solved it eventually, and together,” he said. “A much better prospect than what in fact transpired. Can you forgive me?”

“I do seem to recall, from the days of our courtship, that you're particularly gifted when it comes to persuasion. I must warn you, however, of the possibility I may have grown immune to some of the maneuvers you've already used on me.”

“Then I shall have to search the recesses of my soul for new ways to impress you. If I'm clever enough, will I be able to convince you to trade investigation for a more thorough pursuit of classical knowledge? Perhaps a term at Oxford?”

I laughed. “No, Colin, you'll never dissuade me from wanting to pursue those things at which I excel, investigations included.”

“You'll be the death of me, you know,” he said.

“Would you have it any other way?” I asked. The only reply he gave was a kiss, deeper and more passionate than any in my memory. It might have been he was avoiding the question, but I preferred to consider it his answer, and that I could live with for all the rest of time.

Myriad thanks to…

Charlie Spicer and Allison Caplin, whose insightful comments made this a better book.

Andy Martin, Matthew Shear, Sarah Melnyk, Anne Hawkins, and Tom Robinson, whose tireless efforts never go unnoticed.

Mary-Springs and Stephane Couteaud, who kindly let me stay and write in their beautiful home while I explored the Norman countryside. Without them, this book would not have been possible.

Brett Battles, Robert Gregory Browne, and Bill Cameron, Joyclyn Ellison, Kristy Kiernan, Elizabeth Letts, and Renee Rosen, fabulous writers and even better friends.

Christina Chen, Nick Hawkins, Carrie Medders, and Missy Rightley, each of whom I could not do without.

Gary and Anastasia Gutting, for continuing to read piles of manuscript pages.

Xander, for begrudgingly accepting that Colin can't go around shooting people. Katie and Jessie for not thinking Colin should be shot.

Andrew Grant, for all the happiness in the world.