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John had never found himself in the perplexing situation of trying to avoid the presence of someone who happened to be the person he most wanted to be with. But he knew that if he spent more than a few minutes at a time with Reina, they might start talking—truly talking—and he was afraid of what he might reveal to her.

What in God’s name had happened to him? Not all that long ago, he’d stalked through Manchester’s darkest alleys with complete confidence. Now he was trying to do his job while slipping through the house unnoticed. He actually envied Alan, who had charted every cat door and hidden passageway and was now able to pop up in a room seemingly out of nowhere.

On the day William Farlow was expected to visit for tea, John woke up with a feeling in his bones that something was going to go wrong. Precisely what the something was, or how wrong it would go, was impossible to guess. It could be anything from a rat sighting in the parlor to a kitchen boiler exploding. Tuppence might go into labor, or the police supervisor might make a surprise visit. Whatever it was, John had little doubt it would make him long to dive down into the nearest circle of hell.

As the day progressed, his mood darkened in inverse proportion to Reina’s, which improved steadily at the prospect of Farlow’s visit. Her anticipation glowed brighter by the hour. John already knew about her fondness and admiration for the man, and how much she appreciated his mentorship. He knew also that somewhere amid all Reina’s feelings for Farlow, there was a flicker of romantic interest. The thought raised a blister on his patience.

At Reina’s request, John had set the tea service at one end of the long library table. The other end of the table was stacked with documents she intended to review with Farlow during their meeting. He hated the arrangement—not only the look of it, but the concept itself. A table that was half teatime, half work, meant neither activity would be done properly.

But Reina had blithely assured him that she and Farlow often discussed business during mealtimes, as they both found it enjoyable.

John hadn’t argued. If an employer wanted something done a certain way, it was the right way, even when it was very obviously wrong.

He had put his foot down, though, at Reina’s statement that Norman, as her private secretary, would be having tea with them.

Norman could sit at the writing desk in the corner and take notes or fetch documents as needed. He would not, however, sit at the library table.

“What if he wants a cup of tea?” Reina had protested.

John had replied that Norman could drink his tea at his desk.

“What if he wants a slice of pie or a biscuit?”

No, he’d told her. No pie, no biscuits. Norman would eat afterward, but he couldn’t sit and dine with Farlow as if they were colleagues.

Reina had continued to argue, but John had held his ground. He’d been gratified when Norman had firmly agreed, telling Reina that the meeting would run far more smoothly without the distraction of social boundaries being crossed.

In the final minutes before Farlow was expected to arrive, John made a last round to ensure everything was ready. Down in the kitchen, June had done her usual superb job, with beautifully arranged plates waiting to be carried up. There were pyramids of delicate sandwiches, beefsteak pie cut in narrow wedges, stacks of cold smoked ham slices, dishes of olives, sweet pickles and celery stalks on cracked ice, and baskets of bread, cakes, and pastries.

The rooms on the main floor were immaculate; every surface swept, dusted, or polished. The library was similarly presentable, except for the heap of documents and files at one end of the table. A white tablecloth had been draped neatly over the other end, anchored by a silver and glass epergne.

The epergne’s central vase was filled with waxy red camellias surrounded by the needly froth of asparagus ferns. Fresh fruit had been heaped on the platter below: melting-ripe pears, plump orange mandarins, hothouse nectarines, and juicy black Hamburg grapes.

Two place settings bristled with full complements of silver, including extra pieces such as pickle forks, fruit knives, jam spreaders, bonbon scoops, olive spoons, silver grape scissors, lettuce and lemon forks, a ham trident, and a silver mustard spoon shaped like a shovel.

“I don’t know how to use at least half of those,” Reina said from the other end of the table.

John looked up to find her laughing gaze on him. She had changed from her day dress into a leaf-green velvet with a vertical band of white lace that went from the modestly scooped neckline down to her waist. The effect was so fresh and pretty that it took him a moment to absorb what she’d said. Then he was filled with annoyance, directed squarely at himself. He’d been so damn occupied with arranging the table settings to demonstrate his competence, it hadn’t occurred to him to consider whether Reina was familiar with all the utensils.

“I bought the entire lot of silver at an estate auction,” Reina continued, propping her chin on her hand as she watched him. “I love all the peculiar forks and spoons, but I haven’t yet learned what they’re all for.”

John loved that she was so comfortable in admitting when she didn’t know something. It was a sign of how confident she was in her own intelligence. But there was no way in hell he would ever put her in a situation where she would be at a disadvantage.

He glanced over the place settings and decisively collected several items from each one.

“Oh,” Reina said hastily, “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” he assured her, deftly aligning the remaining silver. “When I bring each new course, I’ll set out the pieces you need.”

“Thank you.”

John looked up to find her smiling at him. He was taken unawares by his own reaction, the friction of hunger and heat that ignited like a Lucifer match. If he let her, she would reduce him to a live coal on the floor. He averted his face, concealing his expression as he took up the rest of the superfluous silver. With great care, he laid the utensils out on the sideboard. “Ma’am,” he said gruffly, and left the library to wait at the front door.

He stepped outside for a moment, welcoming the blast of cold air against his overheated skin. Tiny frozen pellets of sleet had begun to salt the macadam and flagstone footpath. A clean, vaguely metallic freshness cut through the smells of coal smoke and street rubbish.

Setting his back against the door casing, he closed his eyes, soothed by the steady crackle of sleet. The sound reminded him of the fields in late summer at Galwad-y-Môr, when the barley was heavy in straw and stray breezes rustled the dry stalks together. He wondered how it would be to walk with Reina beside those rippling strands of barley. The sun would strike glints of gold and red in her hair. Every now and then he would stop and pull her into his arms—

The jostling of an approaching carriage, and the clackety-clop of ironshod hooves, brought him back to his senses.