Not one straggle of honey-gold hair escaped Ginny’s cap, and her stockings were sleek and smooth—as they should be. Phyllida had extremely high expectations of her staff at all times, but she was particularly exacting when they were to be interacting with the public.

She turned to the second of the maids she’d brought with her from home. Despite being a kitchen maid and not usually seen by guests or even the family, Molly was just as clean and pressed and starched as Ginny was—and could be counted on not to gossip quite as much. Phyllida mentally nodded approval. “Molly, you can put out the tablecloths—there’s a rectangular one for the head table and the rest are circular—and then help Ginny place the flowers. Directly in the center of the tables, if you please, with three spaced out across the head table.”

Phyllida gestured to the tablecloths she’d just finished counting. As anticipated, there were sixteen round ones, which left two extra since there were fourteen luncheon tables. Phyllida always had an extra of everything.

Except patience, when it came to Myrtle—who’d just made her appearance.

“What is that beast doing in here?” she demanded as the dark, curly-haired mop of a puppy barreled into the hall.

Bradford, the Mallowans’ chauffeur and Myrtle’s master (Phyllida used the term loosely, for she wasn’t quite certain who was the master of whom when it came to the two of them), came casually strolling into the room as if he had not just unleashed a hellhound in a church hall. He was carrying a large crate that presumably held the vases. “She wanted to come with me,” he replied, as if it were the least bit permissible to allow a puppy to run rampant through a luncheon hall. “Where do you want these, Mrs. Bright?”

Every time he said her name in that drawling, ironic tone, Phyllida’s hackles went up. She couldn’t help it. The man was impossible and simply filled with arrogant criticisms and unwanted observations. “On the table there,” she replied frostily. “Dogs are not allowed in the luncheon hall.”

Myrtle was tearing about the space, her tail flying behind her like a banner, barking, bouncing, skittering, and generally making a nuisance of itself. Phyllida removed herself quickly from the beast’s path as it streaked past her. Since Myrtle’s invasion of the grounds at Mallowan Hall, Phyllida had had to retire three pairs of silk stockings due to rents from the creature’s paws, as, for some reason, the beast seemed particularly enamored with her.

Needless to say, Myrtle was not welcome inside Phyllida’s domain of the manor house.

“Of course not, Mrs. Bright,” replied Bradford as he set down the crate. Was he chuckling at her quick footwork to avoid the beast? “But the luncheon isn’t for four hours. She’ll be long gone by then.”