Vronsky loved high tea, though he’d never admit it to any of his male counterparts. He loved the beauty of the details, the three-tiered silver trays, the beautifully sculpted petits fours on the top tier, the delicate crustless sandwiches in the middle, and the crumbly warmth of the scones that sat on the bottom. He adored the tiny ramekins of clotted cream and flavored jams, but most of all he loved the tangy sweet and sour of the lemon curd, his favorite. He had shared high tea with his mother countless times all over the world, but their favorite teas were still after a weekend matinee of a Broadway show.

This teatime with Geneviève ranked as his least favorite right away. As soon as he sat down across from his mother, she scowled. “You look horrible, Alexia,” she said. “You need a haircut and some sun, your coloring is abysmal.”

“Lovely to see you, too, Mother,” he replied, looking around the room to see if he recognized anyone in the crowd who could act as a buffer for him. His attention flew back to his mother when she slapped the palm of her hand down hard enough to make the Limoges china jump and rattle.

“I’ll slap that sarcasm right out of your mouth if you’re not careful,” she hissed. “Today is not the day to test my patience, I’m not feeling jovial.”

“Well that makes two of us,” he said. “Get on with it.”

Though Geneviève’s ankle was healed, she had purchased an antique gold-topped walking stick that had once belonged to a Russian emperor at Sotheby’s and hadn’t tired of its beauty yet. She now wielded it to slap the legs of her son’s chair. The noise made every patron at the surrounding tables turn and gape, including Vronsky, who sat up straight in his chair, sucking in a deep breath that did no favors for his sore ribs. “Mother, you’re causing a scene,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Alexia,” his mother said, her voice loud for emphasis. “You’re the one who should be ashamed for making scenes, not I.” She went on to tell her youngest son that she had been patient long enough with his girl-crazy antics, but she was angry enough to intervene now. Knowing that her niece, Beatrice, would never betray her cousin’s confidence and tell her what was going on, Geneviève had demanded that Kiril find out what he could about his brother’s recent behavior.