“Doing what?”

“You know full well to what I’m referring.”

Baxter’s stern features relaxed, and he gave her a rueful smile. “So I am, my dear. I deeply apologize. How may I make it up to you?”

“You can tell me what is troubling you so. It has to be more than a mere picture in a newspaper.”

As an answer, he stretched out his hand and patted hers. “Nothing more than that, I assure you. Now finish your pheasant before it grows cold.”

She searched his face for a moment or two before picking up her knife and fork. He could deny it all he liked, but she knew her husband. Something was distressing him, and the very fact he wanted to hide it from her told her it was significant. She would not rest comfortably now until she knew exactly what had drawn those furrows on Baxter’s brow.

Down in the kitchen, Pansy groaned as she lifted a tray full of dirty dishes from the dumbwaiter. It was the job she disliked the most. The maids piled the trays so high she could hardly lift them, much less carry them across the kitchen to the sink.

She lived in fear that something would fall off the tray and she would have to pay through the nose to replace it. In order to avoid that at all costs, she edged across the tiled floor one step at a time, holding her breath. That usually aroused the ire of Mrs. Chubb, however, who invariably yelled at her, making her jump, putting the dishes in even more peril.

She had almost reached the sink when the dreaded protest bellowed out behind her. “For pity’s sake, Pansy! Get a move on with those dishes. You’re taking all day!”

Although she’d braced herself for the housekeeper’s explosion, Pansy was helpless to prevent the violent jerk of her body. The dishes rattled, and a precious cup wobbled back and forth at an alarming angle.

In a desperate bid to save it, Pansy lunged forward the last two steps and smacked the tray down on the counter. The cup leapt from the tray and landed on the floor with an almighty crash.