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“Edward Finch.”

He escaped before she could throw the ledger at him.

Judith remained seated until she heard his footsteps disappear, then pulled the folded note from beneath the book. She ought to burn it.

There was no denying that would be the sensible course. Colonel Renforth had sent one of his men into the house because information was escaping from gatherings such as this one, and although Judith knew her own communications contained nothing treasonous, the distinction might appear somewhat less convincing to a military Intelligence Officer who discovered her passing anonymous notes.

She held the paper closer to the candle flame—and then stopped.

If she burned it, Lord Cranford would continue laughing about reductions in wages while men who had no voice in Parliament paid the price. Grain merchants would continue hoarding supplies, and gentlemen in London would continue lamenting northern unrest without troubling themselves to discover why men were angry.

She would send it. Then, perhaps, she would cease for a time—at least until Baines left. That was prudent enough. She tucked the note into the concealed pocket of her gown and went to find Mrs. Talbot.

The remainder of the afternoon provided an abundance of ordinary disasters with which to occupy herself. The chimney in the blue chamber required attention; Cook needed another scullery maid whilst the house remained so full; Lady Stanhope demanded fresh flowers, despite March furnishing few of them; and Sir Lionel had apparently invited two additional gentlemen for dinner without mentioning the matter to anyone whose labour might be affected by it.

Judith welcomed each difficulty with something approaching gratitude, since it left less opportunity to think of Major Baines.

By half past three, she had nearly succeeded. Then a footman entered the servants’ passage carrying an arrangement of narcissus and early greenery.

Judith stared at it. “Where did those come from?”

“Major Baines, miss.”

Her stomach gave an irritating little turn. “For Lady Beckenham?”

The footman appeared confused. “No, miss. They are for you.”

Cook turned from the pastry table. Two kitchen maids abruptly discovered reasons to remain very still. Even Mrs. Talbot looked interested.

Judith wished for a sudden collapse of the ceiling. “Why?”

“I could not say, miss. There is a card.”

Of course, there was a card. Judith plucked it from among the flowers.

For Miss Finch, who has been obliged to abide too many unpleasant things this morning.

There was no signature; none was required.

Cook made a small sound behind her.

Judith turned. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing, miss.” Cook returned to her pastry with a smile.

Judith looked again at the flowers.

They were not extravagant, which made them infinitely worse. A magnificent arrangement of hothouse roses could have been dismissed as a practised flirtation, one more piece of nonsense from a gentleman who distributed charm as freely as other men offered snuff.

These were simple spring flowers. He had noticed that her morning had been unpleasant. That was altogether more dangerous. Judith handed the card back to the footman.

“Put them in the morning room.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Not the drawing room.”

“No, miss.”