The kitchen had fallen silent. Perplexed, Hugh looked from face to face. The normal bustle of the kitchen was frozen into a tableau, as though the room was a stage. Mrs. Bramble’s jaw hung open, her hand stretched out, motionless, halfway to a mixing bowl, eyes fixed on that strange boy, Philip. The little scullery maid stood still, only her nose twitching with excitement. A passing footman had skidded to a halt, leaving boot black in a stripe across the floor.

Hugh was accustomed for the servants to stop work at the entry of the master. They would acknowledge his presence with bows and curtsies, tug at their aprons, straighten their caps, and wait to hear and carry out his orders. Today, though, they all appeared to have taken leave of their senses. They gaped, open-mouthed, not at the master, but at that strange, untrustworthy new arrival, Philip.

Hugh glared. “Is aught amiss?” His voice was harsh.

Mrs. Bramble cleared her throat, but no one ventured to speak.

He lost patience. “Mrs. Bramble, perhaps you would be so good as to explain why the entire staff is staring at this young man rather than continuing with the preparations for the Christmas celebrations?” Hugh looked at every face. No one moved.

Impatient, he continued, his voice firm. “My mother and sister will arrive later today and expect all to be in hand for the Christmas celebrations. I am sure you will not wish to disappoint. Get on with your work, everyone.”

To his surprise, no one moved. He glared. This must be John’s doing. What had the boy been about, now? “John, I can see you perfectly well behind that table. Take your finger out of the honey pot and come with me.”

“Can the lady come too?” asked John.

The kitchen held its breath once more. Hugh’s whip tapped a brisk rhythm on the hat. “Lady? What lady?” He spoke as quietly as a sense of rising irritation allowed. Really, John tried his patience, with one piece of nonsense after another.

John pointed. “That one.”

Hugh’s gaze followed the direction of John’s hand. A sticky blob of honey dripped off his son’s finger on to the floor. Hugh ignored it. He looked at Philip and frowned. The boy’s face had turned ghostly white. Hugh blinked and looked again, the frown deepening. Slowly, he took in every detail of the lad’s appearance as realisation dawned. Hugh finally saw why the lad had struck him as strange.

He was of medium height, for a young boy. A tousled mass of black hair framed a white face. The curls, badly trimmed, stuck out in random wisps. A tiny, upturned nose twitched above a mouth that was a little too wide. Pale lips, clamped together in a straight line, trembled. A pair of blue eyes gazed at Hugh, wide and shocked, fringed by long, dark lashes. Hugh recognised with a jolt that the young boy, Philip, was in fact a tall and pretty woman. She was very young.