“You’re doing your part admirably, too.”

Gyles humphed. “Has Lancelot Gilmartin called since our excursion to the Barrows?”

“No-not since then.”

Gyles stilled. “He’d called before?”

“Yes, but I’d instructed Irving to deny me, remember?”

Gyles drew her on; those waiting their turn with her could wait a moment longer. “Could Lancelot have had anything to do with your ruined cap?”

“How? The cap was in my room.”

“You thought it was in your room, but you might have left it somewhere. The Castle may be fully staffed, but it’s so huge it’s easy for someone to slip in undetected.”

Francesca shook her head. “I can’t imagine it. He might have been angry, but attacking my cap seems such a silly-”

“Childish thing to do. Precisely why I thought of Lancelot.”

“I think you’re making too much of the incident.”

“I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough. But if not Lancelot…”

Gyles halted; Francesca glanced at him, then followed his gaze. He was looking at the pit where a whole ox was roasting under Ferdinand’s exacting eye.

“It makes even less sense to suspect Ferdinand. He’s not the least bit angry with me-or you.”

Gyles glanced at her. “He wasn’t annoyed that you weren’t receptive to his impassioned pleas?”

“He’s Italian-all his pleas are impassioned.” She shook Gyles’s arm. “You’re worrying over nothing.”

“Your riding cap-a favorite possession-was found deliberately ruined and hidden in a vase. Until I discover who did it, and why, I will not let the matter rest.”

She exhaled through her teeth. A farmer and his wife were tentatively approaching. “You’re so stubborn. It’s nothing.” Smiling brilliantly, she released Gyles’s arm.

“It’s very definitely not ‘nothing.’ “ Gyles nodded urbanely to the farmer and stepped forward to greet him.

They separated. Despite her intentions, Francesca found her thoughts returning to the mystery of her ruined cap. There had to be a simple explanation.

After fifteen minutes with a bevy of giggling housemaids, she was certain she’d found it. When Gyles came to escort her to the archery range, she smiled and took his arm. “I have it.”

“ ‘It’ what?”

“A sensible explanation for my cap.”

His gaze sharpened. “Well?”

“For a start, if someone wanted to ruin my cap to make me sorry-to pay me back for something I’d done or not done-then they wouldn’t have hidden it in that vase. It might not have been found for months, even years.”

Gyles frowned.

“But,” she continued, “what if I’d left it somewhere and it was accidentally damaged-say with furniture polish. Any maid would be horrified-she’d be certain she’d be dismissed even if you and I know that wouldn’t happen. What would a maid do? She couldn’t hide the cap and take it away-their dresses and aprons have no pockets. So she’d hide it where no one would find it.”

“It was mangled and pulled apart.”

“That might have happened when the maid tried to put the branches in the vase. I was just speaking with her. She said the cap was tangled in the ends of the branches when she pulled them out to see what the problem was.”

Francesca smiled as they neared the crowd gathered about the improvised archery range. “I think we should forget about my cap. It was only a scrap of velvet, after all. I can always get another.”

Gyles got no chance to reply; she slipped her hand from his arm and stepped forward to present the prizes for the men’s archery competition. He stood back; his mind continued to dwell on her cap.

A scrap of velvet and a flirting feather. It might have had little real worth, but despite her comments, it had been a favorite possession of hers. He’d grown fond of it himself.

Propping his shoulders against a tree, he watched her, careful to keep his expression easy, impassive. Her explanation was possible-he had to concede that. Other than Lancelot and Ferdinand, he could conceive of no one who might want to upset her. Even imagining such a thing of them was extrapolating wildly.

According to the staff, Lancelot had not been sighted on the estate since being warned to keep away, and despite her strictures, Ferdinand seemed as worshipful of Francesca as he’d ever been. Even more telling, while Lancelot or Ferdinand might be enamored of dramatic gestures enough to destroy the cap, they wouldn’t, as she’d pointed out, have hidden the result-where was the gesture in that?

So… the destruction of the cap was an unfortunate accident. All they could do was shrug and forget it.

That conclusion didn’t ease the tightness about his chest, nor the compulsion to remain watchful and alert.

Amid laughter and cheering, Francesca turned away from the archery butts. He stepped to her side. She smiled and allowed him to take her hand, set it on his sleeve. Allowed him to keep her with him for the rest of the day.


The Harvest Festival was a resounding success. When the sun sank low and the tenants finally rolled home, Francesca and Gyles joined their staff, helping to strike the trestles and return the perishables inside before the river mists spread through the park. Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace helped, too. When all was done, they stayed for supper-just soup followed by a cold collation.

Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace were driven home by Jacobs, and the entire household fell exhausted into bed.

It was midday the next day before things got back to normal.

Gyles and Francesca were seated at the luncheon table, serving themselves from the dishes Irving and a footmen offered, when Cook popped her head around the door, then sidled in. Francesca saw her and smiled.

Cook bobbed a curtsy. “I was just bringing this to Irving.” She held up a glass bottle with a silver top. “Your special dressing.”

Francesca’s eyes lit. “You found it!” She held out her hand.

Cook handed over the bottle. “It was stuck away on a shelf in the pantry. I came across it just this minute when I went to put some of the jam away.”

“Thank you.” Francesca smiled delightedly. Cook bobbed her head and retreated.

Gyles watched as Francesca shook the bottle vigorously, then sprinkled the liquid over her vegetables. “Here.” He held out a hand when she finished. “Let me try it.”

She handed the bottle over. It had a conical lid with a hole in the top.

“What’s in it?”

She picked up her knife and fork. “A mixture of olive oil and vinegar, with various herbs and seasonings.”

Gyles did as she’d done, dribbling the shaken liquid over his potatoes, carrots, and beans. He lowered his face and sniffed-he sat back.

He looked at the bottle, still clasped in his hand-looked at Francesca, raising a sliver of carrot to her lips-

He lunged over the table and grabbed her wrist. “Don’t eat that!”

Eyes wide, she stared at him.

He was looking at the piece of carrot speared on her fork; it gleamed with a light coating of dressing. He forced her hand down. “Put it down.”

She released the fork. It clattered on her plate.

“My lord?”

Irving was at his shoulder. Easing back, fingers still locked about Francesca’s wrist, Gyles held the bottle out to his butler. “Smell that.”

Irving took the bottle, sniffed. His eyes widened. He stared at the bottle. “Well, my word! Is that…?”

“Bitter almonds.” Gyles looked at Francesca. “Get Wallace in here. And Mrs. Cantle.”

Irving sent the footman hurrying off. He himself whisked the plates from before them.

Francesca was staring at the bottle. “Let me smell it.”

Irving gingerly brought it to her. She took it, sniffed, then met Gyles’s gaze. He raised a brow.

“It smells like bitter almonds.” She set the bottle down.

The door opened; Mrs. Cantle entered, followed by Wallace. “My lord?”

Gyles explained. The bottle was passed around. The verdict was unanimous-the dressing smelled of bitter almonds.

“I don’t understand how…” Wallace looked at Mrs. Cantle.

Her color high, the housekeeper faced Gyles. “The bottle went missing-it’s been gone at least a week. Cook found it just a few minutes ago.”

Gyles motioned to Irving. “Fetch Mrs. Doherty.” Irving left. Gyles turned to Mrs. Cantle. “Tell me about this dressing.”

“I asked if it could be made.” Francesca twisted her hand and gripped Gyles’s fingers. “It’s a habit I developed since coming to England-I find dishes here too bland…”

Cook arrived, pale and shaken. “I had no idea. I saw the bottle there and grabbed it, and brought it straightaway-I knew m’lady had been missing it this past week.”

“Who makes the dressing?” Gyles asked.

Mrs. Cantle and Cook exchanged glances. Mrs. Cantle answered. “Ferdinand, my lord. He knew what Lady Francesca was describing-he took great care-felt quite chuffed, he did-to be making it for her.”

“Ferdinand?”

Gyles looked at Francesca. He could see in her eyes her wish to deny all he was thinking.

Cook shuffled her feet. “If you don’t mind, m’lord, I’ll get rid of this wicked stuff.”

Gyles nodded. Cook picked up the bottle and left.

Wallace cleared his throat. “If you’ll pardon the comment, my lord, I would argue that Ferdinand is the least likely person to have used the dressing to poison Lady Francesca. He’s devoted to her ladyship, and despite his histrionics he’s been unfailingly good at his job; he’s ultimately done all we’ve asked of him. Ever since her ladyship arrived, he’s got on a great deal better with Cook, which was really the only odd kick in his gallop.”

Mrs. Cantle nodded in agreement. Gyles turned to find Irving nodding, too.

“And,” Wallace went on, “if Ferdinand wanted to poison anyone, he could do so, very easily and with a great deal less chance of being detected, by introducing poison into the more highly flavored dishes he prepares than by putting bitter almonds into her ladyship’s dressing.”

Gyles looked at them all. Given what he was feeling, it was difficult to incline his head and accept their argument. Eventually, he did so. “Very well. But then who put the poison in that bottle? Who has access to bitter almonds?”

Mrs. Cantle grimaced. “All you need is a kernal, my lord, and the trees are common-there’s three on the south lawn.”

Gyles stared at her.

A knock sounded on the door. Cook looked in. “Your pardon, m’lord, but I thought you’d want to know.” She came in, closed the door, then, drawing a deep breath, faced them all. “I was tipping the stuff down the drain when Ferdinand came up. He saw what I was doing and asked why. Well, he was about to fly into one of his Italian pelters, so I told him. He was shocked-well and truly shocked. Couldn’t say a word, at first. Then he said, ‘oh-but wait.’ Seems he used the last of an old bottle of almond oil-I do remember he hadn’t enough of the olive last time he made the dressing, and I told him where to find the almond. I use it in my sweet crusts, you see. And I remember him telling me he’d had to use the last bit.” Cook clasped her hands tightly. “So you see, it might have been the almond oil going bad that you all smelled.”

Gyles looked at Wallace, then at Mrs. Cantle. She nodded. “Could be.”

Gyles grimaced. “Bring the stuff back…”

Cook blanched. “Can’t, m’lord.” She wrung her hands. “I tipped it all down the drain and put the bottle to soak.”


Francesca was glad to spend the rest of the day quietly, catching up with the myriad decisions necessary to keep a house the size of Lambourn Castle functioning smoothly-decisions set aside while preparations for the Festival were under way. She and Wallace, Irving and Mrs. Cantle met late in the afternoon to make notes on what had worked well, and detail suggestions for next year. Gyles didn’t join them, but retired to the library; Francesca assumed he was sunk in his research.

She woke the next day to discover the sun shining weakly. She summoned Millie and dressed in her riding habit, mourning the loss of her cap but determined to let the matter lie. On reaching the breakfast parlor, she learned Gyles had already gone out riding, as she’d supposed. Finishing her toast, she headed for the stables.

“Aye-she’ll be eager for a run,” Jacobs said when she inquired after Regina. “I’ll have her saddled in a trice.”

He was as good as his word, leading the mare out and holding her steady while Francesca climbed into the saddle. She was settling her feet when she heard the clop of other hooves. Two grooms, mounted on two of Gyles’s hunters, ambled out of the stable.