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‘Sounds cosy,’ he said and the way he looked at her felt immediately dangerous.

‘I think we can do better than a sandwich and cocoa, but it won’t be fussy.’

‘Eight it is. I have no idea where I am supposed to come, of course.’

‘Forgive me. I can probably find a card in here.’ She began digging, embarrassed, into her handbag. ‘Ah, here we are.’

He glanced at the small card and she knew it was meaningless to him.

‘It’s on the corner, opposite the green – you can’t miss the yew in our garden. Matthew wanted to chop it down because it’s poisonous but I assured him it’s only toxic if you eat the leaves or berries. And it’s old and glorious and —’ Alex realised she was blathering and stopped abruptly.

‘I’ll find you.’ He grinned. ‘Thank you. Would you like me to wait until —’

‘No, please, do go.’ She blinked at how rude that sounded. ‘What I mean is, there’s another tram in a couple of minutes. I shall see you this evening. You’d better go and change your rail ticket if you have a return. Where are you staying?’

‘At a guesthouse not far from the Minster.’

She pointed. ‘Just follow your nose from the station. It’s an easy walk into the city – maybe ten to twelve minutes.’

She knew he could tell she wanted him gone. He took the cue, lifted his hat. ‘Until this evening, Mrs Britten-Jones.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Blake.’

Alex watched him depart in long, effortless strides and recalculated that it would barely take him seven or eight minutes at that sort of lope. She had lied; the next tram would be ten minutes away. It would be easier to walk up Blossom Street to The Mount and drop in on her parents. She could ring home from there and ensure her housekeeper knew they’d have company tonight. Her father might even get the motor car out and run her home.

13

Alex’s cook, a middle-aged woman with huge, slightly gnarled hands that could make the lightest of sponges or pastries, glanced at her sideways. The silence spoke droves. Alex shrugged, more in an effort to convince herself of the innocence of her evening event. ‘It’s just supper.’

Norma, her housekeeper, flapped a dishcloth she was folding. ‘Is that too late, madam, to be having a gentleman visitor, perhaps?’

Alex knew not to take offence with either woman but especially Norma, who was one of those Yorkshire women who spoke her mind but had a heart of pure sunshine and deep loyalty to her family. ‘Now, you sound just like my mother.’

‘I’m old enough to be her, madam,’ Norma replied, cutting her another disapproving glance. ‘Doesn’t look good.’

Alex refused to bite. ‘Only to people who want to read bad into everything. I’ve explained how we met and I’ve agreed to help Mr Blake with his enquiries. He’s a returned soldier, Norma, Joyce; I feel we owe all of our soldiers every courtesy.’

Joyce’s mouth flattened at the soft admonishment.

Norma didn’t back down. ‘Mr Britten-Jones is arriving home tomorrow. Should we prepare something special for dinner?’

Alex wanted to laugh at the timely reminder that she was indeed married. Norma clearly wanted to ensure her mistress had not overlooked this fact.

Instead she kept a bright tone. ‘Yes, let’s do a roast for him, shall we? It’s his favourite. All right with you, Joyce?’

‘Very good. Are you sure fish quenelles are appropriate for a guest, madam?’

‘They were perfectly good enough for my supper, so I don’t see why Mr Blake won’t enjoy them. Head home early, Joyce. No need to wait on us as Norma’s here if I need any help . . . which I won’t. We’ll eat at the side table in my salon.’

Norma’s eyes widened. ‘Saves firewood, I suppose.’

Alex laughed. ‘You couldn’t sound more disapproving if you tried, Norma. Can you see how little fuss I’m going to?’ she said, gesturing to her simple outfit of a silk floral blouse and long, belted skirt. ‘Would it ease your heart to know that I’ve invited my parents over later to meet Mr Blake? They’re planning to drop in for an evening coffee.’

Norma’s troubled expression eased. ‘Lady Frobisher will enjoy the garden cake that Joyce baked today. I’ll serve that, as you have no pudding planned; perhaps your guest will enjoy it too.’

‘As you choose. My mother will certainly not say no to a slice of our lauded garden cake, I’m sure . . . and neither will my father.’ She grinned and squeezed the shoulders of both women with genuine affection. ‘Thank you. Mr Blake is arriving at eight, so half an hour later will be fine for our supper.’

She retreated to the salon, where a merry fire had banished the chill of February, and pretended to read for a while. Her belly growled into the silence and she realised how famished she was, having only had two bites of a toasted crumpet for breakfast and then skipped lunch to rush and meet the dignitaries who never turned up and then the long tour; plus she didn’t so much as sip her tea at the railway station. When she looked up the hand on the mantelpiece clock had barely shifted, which meant her guest was still more than half an hour away from arriving. She considered a piece of buttered bread but the phone rang to distract her and she was out of her chair in a blink to answer it at the sideboard.