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“Agreed.”

Townsend eyed him curiously. “Are you truly as desperate as you sound?”

“Completely. Tripping-over-myself desperate.”

Something that sounded remarkably like a chortle rattled in Townsend’s throat, but he turned back to the bookshelf before Henry could see if he actually smiled.

“I will join you in the accessions room after the next tour,” Townsend said. “You can show me what you have then.”

Relief, pure and lifting, flooded through Henry. “You have my thanks, Townsend.”

The older gentleman grunted and pulled two books off the shelf. “Well, go on, then. Don’t you have butterflies to catalog?”

Henry grinned. “I do, indeed.”

The door to the manuscript saloon opened, and Fernsby walked in, leading half a dozen others. The garishly dressed gentleman’s eyes instantly landed on Henry and Townsend, and he raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Good day,” Henry said, acknowledging Fernsby and the guests with a nod but not stopping long enough to exchange anything further. Knowing Fernsby, he would seek out Henry at his earliest convenience to discover why Henry had been talking to Townsend. There would be time enough to explain what had happened later.

Aunt Millward’s front door thudded closed, and Emily released a deep breath. She gazed at the vase full of brightly colored bluebells sitting beside the tea tray. It was the second time Colonel Eastberry had delivered flowers. This time, however, he’d brought them himself and had stayed for almost an hour. Aunt Millward had been marvelous, ordering tea and maintaining the conversation when Emily had run out of questions about India, but the entire visit had been exhausting.

“Would you mind if I go upstairs for a little while?” she asked Aunt Millward. “I promised Phoebe I’d visit her this afternoon.”

“Of course not, dear. I daresay Phoebe will be anxious to hear news of your visitor and your trip to the museum.”

Aunt Millward was right. Phoebe was always desperate for any news of life outside her bedchamber. A social call would rank highly compared to updates on the latest book Emily had been reading. Perhaps Emily should be glad of Colonel Eastberry’s visit after all. It would be a far safer topic to discuss with Phoebe than what she had done at the museum. Resisting the urge to touch her cheek, Emily rose from the sofa. “I won’t be long.”

“Not to worry.” Aunt Millward picked up a book. “I have a great deal more to learn about Bengal tigers before Colonel Eastberry comes again.”

“If you think he will return soon, perhaps you’d better share everything you learn with me.”

Aunt Millward opened the book. “Why don’t you finish the three volumes I gave you on local flora and fauna first, and then I shall tell you about India.”

Emily nodded her agreement. If she was lucky, one of those books may have some illustrations of English butterflies.

Phoebe was sitting up in bed, waiting for Emily, and urged her to take a seat the moment she entered the bedchamber.

“I’ve been watching the clock ever since I heard the front door close,” Phoebe said. “If you hadn’t appeared in the next five minutes, I would have sent Hannah after you.”

Emily laughed. “Forgive me. I spoke to Aunt Millward for a few minutes after Colonel Eastberry left.”

“So, it was Colonel Eastberry. I thought as much.” Phoebe gave her a mischievous look. “I sent Hannah down to see who had come to call. I guessed it was him from her description.”

“It was very nice of him,” Emily said.

Phoebe tilted her head and studied Emily carefully. “I must say, for someone who has obviously caught the eye of a very respectable gentleman, you look remarkably unaffected.”

Unaffected? Was she? “Yes, I suppose I am. Unless experiencing relief that Colonel Eastberry’s visit is over counts.”

“Unfortunately for the colonel, I would not classify that particular emotion as a sign that you are particularly lovestruck.”

“It’s hard to believe anyone would be lovestruck by a discussion of the diet of monkeys, the woes of India’s wet season, the difficulty in maintaining a crisp uniform while on a march, and the sorry state of the merchant ships in Calcutta.”

“You might be surprised,” Phoebe said. “I have discovered that when it comes to conversing with a gentleman, the subject matter has very little to do with the feelings of one’s heart. One could be discussing something as banal as weeds and feel quite giddy as long as the exchange is with the right person.”

Such as Henry. The words echoed through Emily’s head so clearly that she wondered if Phoebe could hear them. A vision of Henry wrapping the ribwort plantain she’d uprooted in Clapham Common was quickly replaced by one of him listening to her in the museum’s cluttered accessions room. She swallowed. Phoebe was right. The memories filled her with pleasure—and something that felt uncomfortably like giddiness.

“Emily?” There was a hint of concern in Phoebe’s voice. “Are you quite well?”