Veronica’s plans for her newfound cousins did not interest Regan. What terrified her was that Luke and Nora would be on that crossing.

It was obvious Kit had the same thought. “Regan, isn’t that the ship your moth—”

Regan gave Kit a warning pinch as she broke in, “We’re all so anxious to see Philip again and meet his fiancée.”

“Val makes me nervous,” Penelope said. “She gives me agida.”

“Oh, she’s quite all right,” Veronica said. “A bit overbearing, of course, but Philip needs looking after, and I won’t be here forever. Now I really must see some of the other guests.”

The maid, wearing an expression that seemed to signify permanent resignation, was passing a tray of sherry. Regan and Kit each plucked a glass and escaped to stand by the window.

“I’m sorry I almost let the cat out of the bag,” Kit told her. “But I suppose it wouldn’t have made much difference. She’s sure to hear your mother’s on board, and once she knows it she’ll never give her a minute’s peace.”

“Not necessarily. Unless she’s on a publicity tour, my mother travels as Mrs. Luke J. Reilly. She tries to avoid the celebrity bit when she and my father are on vacation.”

“That’s good. Your mother’s so nice, she’d have a hard time telling Veronica to get lost,” Kit said. “Those gardens really are beautiful, aren’t they?”

As far as the eye could see, the property had been cultivated into an exquisite English garden with formal beds of a variety of flowers including old pinks, marigolds, forget-me-nots, delphiniums, pansies and Bramp-ton stocks, all separated by pebble footpaths. Toward the side of the house, a large tract of land had been turned into a vegetable garden.

“I wonder how Philip could possibly have done all that by himself. I’ve killed so many plants with too much water, not enough water, too little sun, too much sun, no plant food, the wrong plant food. I can’t keep a weed alive in my apartment.”

“Oh, Regan, I’m just sure you don’t give yourself enough credit,” Claire trilled in Regan’s ear.

Regan had the immediate thought that Claire had all the makings of a private investigator. An ability to turn up where she wasn’t wanted and hear what wasn’t intended for her ears.

“I’ll bet you talk to your plants, Claire,” Regan said sweetly.

“You bet. I just chatter away to them,” Claire agreed. “Wouldn’t you just think that with the way Philip has made these grounds so beautiful, the old lady would spring for a little interior decorating? I mean, there’s old, and then there’s old. Well, maybe when Philip gets married, his wife will take this place in hand.”

“It really isn’t hers to take in hand,” Regan observed.