“Fergus did rather well for himself,” India said, moving toward the lawn. “During the uprising in 1745 he supported the English, and made lots of money. Since the rightful heir, Robert Dunbar, was conveniently dead, Fergus inherited and added on to the house. There’s a picture of him in the portrait gallery. I can’t say I like the looks of him, though. He’s always given me the creeps.”

“Why?” Jack asked, amused. “What did he do that was so bad?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged as they walked. “Some say he was a traitor. Lots of people around here were Jacobites, although they couldn’t admit to it. But even though they didn’t fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie, they never would have done anything to aid and abet the English.”

“Is that what Fergus did?”

“According to legend.” Again she shrugged and smiled. “I suppose stories get enhanced as the years go by. But he certainly made enough money to hire Adam to complete the house.”

“One of the Adam brothers?”

“Yes, the most renowned architect of that period.”

“He did a fine job.”

India glanced at him, her eyes softening. “I think so, too. It’s so serene, so…I can’t quite explain it.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

Their earlier antagonism seemed to have dissipated mysteriously in the cloak of gray mist surrounding them. By the time they reached the house and headed for a small door in the east wing, it was nearly dark.

Jack shuddered again for no reason and turned, glancing back across the lawn at the huge oak tree etched majestically on the dim horizon. Then his gaze moved to India, who was twisting the stiff brass doorknob on the heavy oak door.

“I guess you’ll be okay now.” He hesitated, catching a sudden glimpse of welcoming light that gleamed from behind the half-open door. “I think I owe you an apology,” he added reluctantly. “I didn’t think there would be anyone else out there today. My mistake.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so stiff, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt obliged to apologize to anyone. “I guess I’ll be on my way. Would you mind if I call a cab? I don’t know if I’ll find my way back through the glen now that it’s dark.”

He glanced up at the sky. Evening was closing in fast, and all of a sudden he wanted to stay. He saw a flash of irritation cross her face followed by distant politeness. It increased his desire to remain and he was now determined to go inside and see the house.

Usually, when Jack decided he wanted something, he made sure he got it. Now, for some perverse reason, he wanted to stay at Dunbar. This woman, this amazing house and the aura of peaceful mystery he instinctively sensed here intrigued him. She’d walked into his life on what, for the last twelve years, had been its worst day, and in some inexplicable fashion she’d marked it.

“Come on in. The telephone’s in the library.”

As India waited expectantly in the doorway, shrouded in a halo of pale light, her thick mane of chestnut hair glinting softy, Jack found himself thinking of mythical knights and princesses and of Gaelic lore.

Then she stepped aside and he entered the cluttered cloakroom filled with old mackintoshes and Wellington boots. The dogs scampered inside. India sent them scuttling down a passage, then closed the door quietly behind them.

He laid his gun down on a wooden bench and slipped off his jacket, hanging it next to hers. Then he followed her up the worn carpeted staircase and along a wide passage lined with ancient volumes. He glanced up, fascinated by the carved bookcases. The coat of arms seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Nor could he explain his sudden sense of anticipation. He’d felt it before on two previous occasions in his life, both of which had been momentous. But perhaps it was just the mist and the enchantment of the place that were juggling his senses. This was Scotland, after all.

He smiled to himself as they reached the end of the corridor, realizing that, whatever the feeling was, it felt good. He stepped forward and opened the door for India, allowing her to pass through into the library, and was immediately struck by the room’s warm, inviting atmosphere. The fire burned nicely amid seventeenth-century blue-and-white Delft tiles surrounding the grate, and, as in the passage, ancient volumes covered the walls from floor to ceiling. It was another example of that delightful shabby chic—as Diana Kinnaird referred to it—that enchanted him in Scotland and at which the British excelled.

“You Brits have a wonderful way of making everything feel as though it’s been around forever,” he remarked with a smile as they moved into the room, glancing at the tea tray strategically placed on a huge ottoman that stood between two sofas upholstered in bottle-green velvet. Some fringed paisley cushions and a cashmere throw were strewn on one, and a huge English sheepdog snoozed peacefully in the corner of the other.

“It’s in our genes.” Her eyes sparkled with sudden amusement. “Good quality, well-worn, not necessarily expensive but always comfortable. The phone’s over there by the way,” she added, pointing to a partner’s desk that dominated the wall on the opposite side of the room. It stood alone between two high windows framed by sagging drapes whose faded pattern melted lazily into the shadows. All of the pieces blended congenially. The faded chair covers, the books, the mahogany furniture and even the threadbare Kurdistan rug before the fireplace appeared undisturbed by the passage of time.

“The number should be on that blue pad next to the phone,” she remarked, moving toward the fireplace and rubbing her arms. “It was really getting freezing out there.”

“Lying on damp ground in mid-November isn’t going to warm you up,” he remarked, picking up a somewhat wilted pad with numbers scribbled all over it. He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the writing. Some of the figures had been crossed out, others written over. The whole thing was so indistinct he wondered how on earth the inhabitants of this place knew where they were calling.

“Can’t you find it?” India asked.

He looked up and grinned. “Sorry, but this writing is pretty hard to make out. Maybe you know which number it is.”

“It should be about the third one down.”

“That says old MacFee, I think,” he said doubtfully.

“That’s right. He’s the local taxi driver. There is only one in the village.”

“I see.” Jack picked up the old-fashioned black telephone and dialed the rotary numbers, his fingers unused to the holes. There were several double rings, but no answer. He watched India, perched on the arm of one of the sofas, her long slim legs extending from below an oversize Aran sweater. He let the phone go on ringing, enjoying the sight. There was something composed and graceful about her, yet coupled with it was a restrained energy, rather like a thoroughbred ready to shoot out of the gate. To his utter discomfort he suddenly imagined what her eyes would look like when filled with deep emotions, such as pleasure.

He gave himself a good mental shake and hung up abruptly.

“It seems old MacFee isn’t home. If you don’t mind, perhaps I could try again in a few minutes.”

“Of course. In the meantime, would you like some tea?” The invitation lacked enthusiasm.

“Thanks. That’d be great.” Truthfully, he didn’t like tea, but perversely he accepted.

“Mummy’s writing is awful,” India remarked, reaching for the pad, a sad little smile curving her lips as she sat down on the sofa near the blazing fire. “Shove over, Angus, you take up far too much room. There’s a perfectly good rug for you to lie on.” She gave the dog a gentle nudge and Angus slid reluctantly to the floor, where he stretched out lazily before the fire.

India scrutinized the phone pad. “I’m afraid the other taxi service from Pennickuik isn’t on here. Anyway, I can’t remember the man’s name.” She looked up and raised her shoulders in a shrug. “If worse comes to worst I’ll drive you back. It can’t be far.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” He settled back comfortably into the sofa and laid one leg casually across the other knee, in no hurry to leave, determined to discover more about this fascinating house and it’s beautiful inhabitant.

India poured carefully from the large silver teapot and cast a surreptitious glance at the man sitting opposite, wondering how long she’d have to entertain him when there was so much she needed to deal with before tomorrow. He looked far too at ease, as though he planned to stay for a while. She tried to think who he reminded her of. Perhaps a taller, broader, American version of Pierce Brosnan. She laid down the pot, conscious that the pale yellow cashmere sweater and olive cord pants suited him rather well, and wondered how old he was. Mid-thirties, she reckoned, handing him a cup and looking at him full face.

Maybe it wasn’t Pierce Brosnan after all, she decided, reaching for the milk, but his face seemed somewhat familiar.

“How long are you staying at Dalkirk?” she asked, wishing she’d rung for the taxi herself. Maybe he’d dialed the wrong number.

“A few more days. I come here from time to time. Peter Kinnaird and I are partners and friends.”

“I suppose you must be in the hotel business, then?”

“Yes, I am. Say, I’ll take some more of that tea, it’s very good.” His fingers touched hers lightly as he handed her back the cup. “Peter and I merged some of our interests a few years ago. Asia and South America mainly. Instead of competing we’ve joined forces.”

“How productive.”

“Yes, it is. I also happen to like Peter quite a bit, so we have a good time doing business. What do you do?”

“I’m an interior designer.”

“Really? Private or commercial?” Jack asked, giving her his undivided attention, the force of his gaze making her shift her eyes quickly to the tray.

“Both, but mainly hotels. I did one of Peter’s, actually. The Jeremy in London. Perhaps you know it?”

“I sure do. I was at the opening, but I don’t recall you being there.” His eyebrows came together in a thick dark line over the ridge of his nose, giving him a severe look, and India got the feeling he’d be a difficult client.

“Unfortunately I couldn’t go. One of my closest friends chose that same weekend to get married.”

“Most unfortunate.” He shot her a quick smile. “You did a great job on the hotel. That statue in the hall, so linear and sleek in such a traditional setting, created an amazing effect. I like that look of understated luxury. You salvaged all the original architectural quirks, too, yet behind the scenes you created a modern hotel running like clockwork. That’s a hell of a challenge.”

India blushed under his gaze, aware that, for some strange reason, his praise meant something to her. Carefully she stirred her tea before answering. “I enjoy it. I could get lost in it if I’m not careful. There’s always a new challenge, and the fine line that has to be maintained when placing modern elements in classical surroundings is half the fun.”

“Peter told me the design company was out of Switzerland. Do you work for them?”

“No, I live in Switzerland. La Dolce Vita is mine.”

“I thought you lived here.” He raised a surprised eyebrow.

She hesitated a moment, then decided to tell him. “Dunbar belongs—rather, belonged to my mother.” For the last couple of hours she’d managed to put the strain and sorrow of the past few days aside. Now it returned in a torrential rush, reality pounding her once more.

“How come you say belonged? Has she sold it?”

“No.” India looked away. “She died, four days ago.”

In the silence that followed she folded the small linen napkin deliberately, determined to wink away the tears that pricked her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his expression dramatically altered, “I shouldn’t have asked—” The nonchalance was gone, replaced by deep consternation and compassion.

“It all happened very suddenly. She had a heart attack. Mercifully she didn’t suffer or have a long illness, and I’m awfully thankful for that,” she added, trying not to think how much she would miss Lady Elspeth.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated again softly.

For a short while they sat, the silence broken only by the crackling of a log shifting in the fire and Angus snoring faintly before the hearth.

Then India rose, her face shielded by her hair as she kneeled down next to the fire and removed the fireguard. She reached blindly for a log, trying desperately to hide the tears she could no longer hold back.

Jack moved swiftly to her side. “Let me do that.” He reached out, placed his hand over hers and took the log gently from her.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” she mumbled, her voice quivering, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks.

After placing the log down on the hearth, Jack reached out his thumb and gently brushed away the tears. “You’ve had a rough day. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll leave and let you rest.” For an instant their eyes met and sorrow gripped him at the intense pain he saw written in hers. “It’s hard to lose someone you really love. It takes time,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “Thank you. I’m so sorry, I just…”

“You don’t need to explain, I understand.” He slipped a hand over hers, squeezing it before getting up. Then he took a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her silently before leaning forward and placing the log on the fire. He picked up the poker and prodded the fire, the flames picking up again. “It took me a very, very long while to recover,” he murmured, as though speaking to himself.

India rose and stood next to him, her face pale. “Was it one of your parents, too?”

“My wife.” He gave a vicious jab with the poker. A log fell at an odd angle and the flames rose higher once more. “She died twelve years ago today.” He placed the instrument carefully back on its stand, and for a while they stood next to each other, staring into the flames, each lost in their own world, but bonded by their grief.

The magic of the moment receded into the shadows when she turned away and sat down. He sighed, understanding her inner battle to come to grips with her feelings. He wished there was something he could do to help, but knew only she could come to terms with her own grief.

Then she looked up and gave him a small determined smile. “Would you like to see some of the house since you’re here?”

“Certainly. It’d be a pleasure,” he answered, returning the smile, relieved. Then he followed her out of the library into the large and drafty stucco hall.

He was agreeably surprised when an hour later it seemed as though only moments had passed. He was more than a little enchanted by India’s company, intrigued by her knowledge and what appeared to be her complete unawareness of the effect she had on a man. They’d wandered through endless rooms, turning lamps on as they went, while she told him stories, some amusing, others sad, about the ancestors who stared down at them from the Raeburn and Gainsborough portraits on the walls. With each tale her expression changed and watching her had become a fascinating diversion in and of itself.

They talked of hotels they knew, places they enjoyed and books they’d both read, and by the time they returned to the library, Jack was perplexed. He could not recall having established such an easy intimacy, in such a short time, with anyone.

“Gosh, it’s seven already,” India exclaimed as the hall clock chimed in the distance. “Would you like a drink before you go?”

“Sounds great,” Jack replied, old MacFee and the taxi forgotten.

“Go ahead,” she said, pointing to a silver tray laden with decanters that stood on an eighteenth-century Boule desk in the far corner of the room.

“Beautiful desk,” he remarked, pouring himself a whiskey. “What can I get you?”

“It is lovely, isn’t it? It’s said to have been bought at auction during the French Revolution. I’ll have a glass of sherry, please.”

Jack brought the drinks over to the fire and handed her a glass. “What are you working on now?” he asked.

“I have to be in Rio for the opening of La Perla, a hotel I finished a couple of months ago. There are still some last-minute touches to go over before the grand opening.” She leaned forward and stroked Angus’s head between the ears.

“That’s the Cardoso Group’s new place in Ipanema, isn’t it? Nelson Cardoso’s a friend of mine. That’s a big job,” he added, impressed.

“Yes, it was. I’m glad it’s over, though I enjoyed it. Nelson’s easy to work for, but the going back and forth got a bit trying by the end.”

“How long will you be in Rio?”

“Actually, I’m going to Argentina first. I promised Gabby O’Halloran—she’s an old friend from boarding school—that I’d redecorate the casco on her family’s estancia. It’s about an hour and a half out of Buenos Aires. I’ll probably stay there for Christmas.”

“You be careful in Rio. Last time I was there all the safes in the hotel were burgled. It’s incredible the things that happen in that city. They have to be seen to be believed. Funny you should mention Buenos Aires. Astra’s just bought into a partnership in a hotel down there.”

India sat up and looked at him. “Astra?”

“Yeah, my company.”

“You own the Astra Group?”

“Uh…yes. Is that good or bad?”

“Neither, it was just a comment.” She seemed embarrassed at having shown surprise.

“We’ve gone into partnership with the owners of the Palacio de Grès. Are you familiar with it? It was a private residence that had already been partially restored. They’d begun building the hotel behind it. Then the funding went dry and they realized they’d need experienced management as well, so they came to us. We liked the deal, and what do you know? Off on another venture.” He laughed, hoping to distract her.

“As a matter of fact, I visited the house once as a little girl,” India remarked. “The owners, Señor and Señora Carvajal y Queiroz, were friends of my parents. They must be very old now if they’re even still alive. I remember being fascinated by its beauty. It’s a unique example of its kind in South America.”

“Hernan Carvajal is the present owner. He told me he was left the property by his grandparents. I guess they must have been your parent’s friends.”

“What a treat to have the opportunity of working with such a wonderful setting. Are you going to preserve the house as the common area?”

“Exactly.”

“But tell me, how has the new hotel been conceived?” She leaned forward, eyes alive with sudden interest.

“As I said, we’re building vertically behind the house.” He put down his glass and leaned forward, pushing the tea tray aside. Then he began drawing with his forefinger on the velvet surface of the ottoman. “Let’s say this is the main house, okay?” She nodded. “When you go in, you have the black-and-white marble hall—”

“Which will be your perfect reception area!” she exclaimed, finishing the sentence for him. “You know, the old salon overlooking the gardens would make a perfect setting for tea. Even a bar,” she added thoughtfully. “Something in the style of what they have at the Alvear but—”

Her sentence remained in midair as the library door flew open, followed by a draft of cold air. Jack watched in astonishment as Lady Serena Hamilton marched into the room. What on earth would she of all people be doing here? he wondered, watching as she threw her suede jacket carelessly over a chair and walked toward the fire.

“I’m exhausted,” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands. “The weather’s simply foul and that wretched man at the funeral home is utterly incompetent. Ah, tea. Just what I need.” Jack saw India stiffen. Then, glancing at Serena, who’d turned abruptly toward him, he rose reluctantly from the sofa.

“Jack!” she exclaimed, smiling archly. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Hello, Serena,” he countered. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Her arrival couldn’t have been more unfortunate. As had been their one-night stand, he reflected grimly, wondering how she was going to play out the scene.

India watched, intrigued, as Jack and her half sister sized each other up, like two opponents, waiting to see who would strike first. She noticed that under the urbane surface Jack’s eyes had turned hard and unyielding. Like chips of blue ice, she realized with a shock. The relaxed individual of moments before had become a formidable adversary.

“You two know each other?” she asked, looking from one to the other, disconcerted by the underlying tension.

“In a manner of speaking.” Jack glanced at her. “I made Lady Serena’s acquaintance at a cocktail party the Kinnairds gave a while back.”

“Acquaintance?” Serena lifted a shapely eyebrow and threw him an arch smile before flopping onto the sofa next to where Jack had been seated. He remained standing and moved close to the fire. “You still haven’t told me what brought you here today.” She made a moue with her well-defined crimson lips.

“He brought me home from the glen,” India interjected, wishing at once that she hadn’t.

“The glen? What were you doing there?”

“I went for a walk,” she answered curtly, annoyed that she had to explain. She watched Serena stretch out her long legs, encased in black leather pants and boots, toward the fire. Angus stirred and turned over before the hearth.

“I took a potshot at her.” Jack smiled ruefully and glanced at India. “Since I nearly killed her, the least I could do was walk her home.” He leaned back against the mantelpiece and assessed Serena as he might a potentially dangerous situation. “Now you tell me. What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” she answered smugly.

This, India reflected, wasn’t strictly true. Serena lived—or was supposed to be living—at her flat in Edinburgh, though, according to their mother, she and her dreadful boyfriend, Maxi von Lowendorf, had been frequent visitors of late. It was strange, for Serena and her mother had never got on too well. India sighed, wishing she herself could have been here more often. Her mother had sounded troubled the last time they’d spoken on the phone, and India wished Lady Elspeth had told her more of what was preying on her mind. Now it was too late.

“Oh, now, about that tea…” Serena reached forward, then gave a tight, disappointed smile. “Oh, it’s cold and there’s no cup, of course. Never mind, I’ll just do without,” she said with a long-suffering sigh.

“I’ll get another pot,” India replied, glad of an excuse to escape. “And I’ll grab an extra cup, too.”

“Would you, darling? That’s awfully kind,” Serena murmured with a condescending smile.

India left the library and walked smartly along the corridor to the pantry. One never knew if Serena meant what she said or if she was being sarcastic. She grimaced, wishing she could like her half sister more.

In the pantry she removed a cup and saucer from the cupboard and then passed by the kitchen, drawn by the delicious smells of fresh baking that had reached into the corridor.

“Mmm,” India exclaimed. “That smells wonderful, Mrs. Walker.” Laying the cup down on the counter, she went over to the kitchen table where the housekeeper was wielding a wooden spoon in a large enamel bowl with zealous determination. “What are you making?” she asked, switching on the kettle.

“Preparing fer tomorrow,” Mrs. Walker answered with a sad shake of her gray head, her hazel eyes bright in a face creased with kindly wrinkles. “I wouldna’ want yer poor dear mother te’ feel ashamed, bless her soul.” She cast her eyes heavenward. “It’ll be quite a gathering. Lady Kathleen called earlier te’ see if we needed anything from the village before she comes back. Always thinks she has te’ be doing something, ye know. She’s awf’y upset about yer dear mother, but so are we all.” She laid the bowl down on the gnarled wooden table, and scraped the remains of the sponge cake batter off the sides of the spoon with a spatula. “Waste not, want not. That’s my motto and I’ve always lived by it.” She gave a satisfied last scour. “Well, as I was saying, Miss India, I said to Lady Kathleen, dinna’ you worry. Thirty years I’ve served the Dunbar family, first yer uncle, Sir Thomas, and the Lord knows he was no easy man, and then yer dear mother, may she rest in peace. It’d be a fine thing, I told her, if I wasna’ able te’ see te’ our ain guests.” There was an audible sniff.

“I’m sure she meant well. Kathleen’s always so thoughtful,” India said tactfully before leaning over the table and surreptitiously passing a finger around the edge of the bowl.

“Och, Miss India! Away with those fingers now!” Mrs. Walker swiped at India’s hand with a dishcloth.

“Scrumptious, Mrs. Walker, you haven’t lost your touch,” she answered mischievously, licking the tips of her fingers.

“Dearie me, when will ye ever grow up.” Mrs. Walker shook her head, smiling fondly. “I dinna’ like te’ think what yer poor mother would say.”

India grinned, picked up the cup and the steaming teapot and headed for the door. “I have to get back with Serena’s tea. We have an American guest in the library. By the way, he ate four of your scones, plus jam and clotted cream.”

“Would that be Sir Peter’s American? I’ve heard there’s one staying over at Dalkirk.”

“One and the same.”

“Aye, I thought so.” She nodded knowingly. “There’s nae too many of them about these parts. Mr. Hunter, the butcher, told me personally that Miss MacGregor had heard from Mrs. MacC.—the housekeeper from Dalkirk, ye know—that the American gentleman’s an awf’y nice-mannered young man. He brought her a special bottle of perfume all the way from America, and he never forgets te’ leave a wee something for the staff.” She gave another firm nod. “There was a lot of talk in the village when Sir Peter went into business with him, but it seems it’s all worked out fer the best.” Mrs. Walker began piling dirty dishes, and a plate slid dangerously from her arthritic grip. India stopped herself from rushing to the rescue and pretended not to notice, knowing Mrs. Walker’s pride would be sorely hurt.

She left the kitchen with a bright smile and heavy heart, dreading what the morrow might bring. She hoped desperately that the estate could afford to keep Mrs. Walker and the others on. There was old Tompson, and Mackay, the gardener. And the tenants. What would happen to them if—She pulled herself up short. There was no use worrying, she reflected, reaching the library. She heard voices just beyond the door and realized she’d completely forgotten about Jack and Serena, her mind so taken up with other things. She hesitated before entering and felt a pang of inexplicable disappointment. Somehow Jack hadn’t struck her as Serena’s type. She paused to gather her composure and heard Serena’s smug voice.

“I suppose India was terrified. She probably didn’t realize she was getting in the way. She’s not used to our way of life, poor thing.”

“The whole incident was entirely my fault,” Jack replied in his pleasant American drawl. “It was my careless behavior, not hers, that caused the incident. I should have been paying more attention.” His was a voice used to giving orders and not being thwarted, she noted, amused despite her anger at Serena’s snide comment.

She entered the library and lay the cup on the tray, surprised that he’d admitted the blame so frankly, and feeling a glimmer of satisfaction at his deft handling of Serena.

“Thanks, darling.” Serena smiled benignly. At thirty-six she looked good, the slim figure from her modeling days in London still intact, and though her clothes were too flamboyant for India’s taste, she could carry them.

India wondered suddenly just how “acquainted” they actually were. Serena’s arched eyebrow and Jack’s discomfort, though quickly disguised, had not escaped her.

And what did it matter anyway? She sat down heavily, suddenly exhausted, the emotional stress of the last few days finally catching up with her.

Serena was telling a long, drawn-out story about the Kinnairds, herself and some of her aristocratic connections. India listened with half an ear to the monotonous monologue, and tried to take a polite interest. But when she caught Jack looking surreptitiously at his watch, she realized it was time to intervene.

When Serena paused for breath, India grabbed her chance. “It’s getting quite late. Please tell me when you feel we should get going.”

“Get going? Where?” Serena demanded, her voice imperious. “Have another drink, Jack, there’s really no hurry.”

“No thanks. I’ve had quite enough.”

The most unobservant person would have picked up the dryness of his tone. But not Serena. India was embarrassed despite herself. “I’m taking Mr. Buchanan back to Dalkirk,” she said formally. “There’s no cab available.”

“You have to be joking. You? You wouldn’t know your way to the end of the drive, let alone to Dalkirk.” Serena gave her a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Why not? I’m perfectly capable of getting in the car and following some directions. I’m sure you can tell me the easiest way to get there.”

“No, no. I can’t possibly allow it.” Serena turned to Jack. “She’s so kindhearted, poor thing, always doing things for others, but I can’t possibly let her go out on a night like this when she barely knows the way.”

“Stop being ridiculous, Serena,” India retorted, trying to mask her anger, writhing inwardly when Serena smiled patronizingly, as though she were explaining something to a very small child.

“I’ll just call the cab again. Maybe old MacFee will be home by now.” Jack stepped toward the desk.

“Good heavens, you won’t find him in at this time,” Serena interjected. “Old MacFee will be on his third round at the Hog and Hound by now. Don’t worry, Jack darling. I’ll take you. I know my way about like the back of my hand. I’m not likely to get lost.”

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