Having forgotten the point of their discussion, Cecily blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The kissing ball thing. Do you really want people to put on a public exhibition in the foyer? Don’t you think that might give the Pennyfoot a somewhat unsavory image?”

Cecily swung around on her stool. “Bax! How terribly unromantic of you! The kissing bough has been an English Christmas tradition for hundreds of years. Besides, we’ve always had a sprig of mistletoe hanging in the foyer. You’ve never found that unsavory.”

Baxter shrugged. “Maybe because it wasn’t quite so obvious as a monstrous ball of the stuff. I have visions of our guests fighting to slobber all over each other in full view of the front door. I can’t imagine that would enhance our reputation.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the Pennyfoot’s reputation has never been exactly pristine. It’s common knowledge that the aristocracy use our facilities for illicit relationships, and may I remind you that it’s only recently that we have had a license to conduct card games. Until then, if you remember, we were forced to keep our illegal card rooms underground. I hardly think a kissing bough compares to any of that.”

He must have heard the resentment in her voice, as he moved over to her and laid a warm hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me, my dear. I’m being overly critical.”

“Yes, you are.” She peered up at him. “Are you, perhaps, not well?”

Shaking his head, Baxter walked over to the wardrobe and opened it. “I am disturbed, that is all. I happened to see a picture this morning of the Mayfair Murderer’s latest unfortunate victim.”

Cecily was surprised to see her husband visibly shudder. Baxter was usually complacent in the face of adversity, and it troubled her to see him so upset. “That must have been quite horrifying.”

“It was.” Pulling a black dress coat from the wardrobe, Baxter muttered, “Diabolical. I hope they catch the wretch before he butchers someone else.”