Adrian’s mind had suddenly leaped to a cemetery in Kent, where he intended to go in the coming week. Annabel, he thought, my beloved Annabel. He needed to go and visit her grave. How he had loved her. To utter distraction, even though she had been married.

And how he had grieved when she had died. Unexpectedly, suddenly of a heart attack. She who had never been ill, never had heart problems. Her death had been a mystery to him, and it always would be. He blamed her husband. A rotten sod. And a bishop at that.

Robert was also thinking of a woman: his estranged wife, Lucinda. She could be difficult, contrary, willful, and deep inside himself he knew with great certainty that she would relish a scandalous divorce. Clap her hands with glee, in fact.

His only hope was that Adrian’s information might prevent it all becoming the talk of the town. That she might agree to go quietly.

A small sigh escaped, and he pushed the image aside. Instead, he imagined Vanessa, the woman of his dreams, whom he thought he would never find.

And in a way he hadn’t; she had found him, viewed him from afar, had had a crush on him for a year. A year of longing and desire. No wonder she wanted to have an affair with him now. He wanted that too, if the truth be known. However, he had vowed to himself that he would control his desire for her. And wait.

He smiled inwardly, thinking of her bluntness, the way she blurted things out to him, exposed her feelings and emotions. He had never known a woman like her. Undoubtedly, she was unique. And to be truthful, he liked hearing her thoughts in the raw, enjoyed her openheartedness. It had turned his life on its head. He couldn’t think about returning to Yorkshire yet. He had written to his sons and to their tutor, and arranged for them to go to their grandparents as planned, at the large estate in nearby Skipton belonging to Lucinda’s parents. They would stay there for several weeks.

Next he needed to give Wilson some instructions for while he was away, including what to do about the neglected gardens. He wished he could have tempted Blackie O’Neill to work on them. He needed someone he could trust. Someone who would just get on with it.

The arrival of Turnbull and the maid brought Robert and Adrian out of their thoughts. Both men straightened in their chairs.

Looking at Adrian, Robert said, “It’s jam roll for dessert. With hot custard. I thought you’d enjoy that, old chap.”

As the butler and the maid took their plates away, and replaced them with clean ones, Adrian said, “Ah well, memories of Eton, no less. And it is my favorite. You’re obviously spoiling me. Do you want something from me?”