And there she was when Lenox came in.

“Oh, Charles!” she said, standing and rushing toward him.

There was no deviant nephew, he saw immediately. Something had gone seriously wrong. He took both of her hands and led her back to the couch.

“Have you had your tea?” Lenox said.

“No, I’d forgotten,” she said. “Kirk-”

She stopped speaking and looked to Charles, still gripping his hands.

“Kirk,” he said, to the butler still standing at the door. “Bring us two glasses of warm brandy. Have someone come in to fix the fire, as well. And then bring us tea, with a bit of food.”

“Very good, sir.”

Lenox looked at Lady Jane and smiled. “It will be all right, old friend,” he said.

“Oh, Charles,” she said again, despairingly.

A footman came in and gave them each a small silver-handled glass. Lady Jane drank her brandy, and then drank Lenox’s when he handed it to her, while the footman prodded the fire back into shape. Then she began to speak.

“It’s ridiculous, I know,” she said, “but I feel a bit as though I’m in shock.”

“What happened, my dear?” asked Lenox.

“Do you remember a girl named Prudence Smith, Charles, a maid I used to have? We called her Prue.”

He paused to think. “No, I don’t,” he said.

“She left about three months ago to work for George Barnard, because her fiance is a footman in his house.”

“And what’s the matter with her?”

“She’s dead,” said Lady Jane, and took the last sip of brandy in her glass to steady her nerves.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “It’s too, too awful.”