They heard someone approach.
Christine looked beyond him and did not hide he was correct in his assumptions.
When he turned, he knew it was Jeff coming and he knew that Christine had no respect for him and possibly liked him even less.
Jeff came to Dair and said, “Your fob, Mr. Wallace.”
Decision made.
The man had to go.
“Your bags are upstairs,” Jeff finished.
“Thank you,” Dair replied.
Jeff jutted his chin mock-diffidently, shot an inscrutable look to Christine, then turned and walked away.
When Dair went back to Christine, he caught her mid-eyeroll.
“Not fond of Helena’s butler?” he inquired.
She blanched and said quickly, “No, sir. It’s just?—”
“I ken who he is, or rather, what he is, Christine.” He paused before he added, “We’ll talk later.”
Her eyes widened, but her surprise swiftly turned to relief which then segued to, if he wasn’t wrong, glee.
For certain, Jeff was an issue that had to be dealt with.
Christine’s emotional journey ended on worry.
“Does Lady Blake know that?—?”
Dair shook his head. “I dinnae think she’s put it together yet.”
“For the best,” Christine mumbled.
“We’ll be on our way just now.” He looked at his watch. “Dinner at six thirty work for you?”
“Yes, Mr. Wallace?—”
“Dair,” he corrected her.
Her mouth twitched.
She heard the Mr.
“Dair,” she said. “I’ve all her favorites in, Lady Blake’s. We’ll get something in her stomach. Keep her energy up, if not her spirits.”
“Thank you, Christine. Terrible circumstances, but lovely to see ye again.”
“Yes, erm…Dair.”
After giving her a smile, he walked away and headed toward the stairs, using his memory of where Blake’s room was when they were young.
That was where he found her.
So he collected her, took her to the car, programmed the SatNav and drove them to the morgue.
