“Yes.” Tiggle nodded firmly. “Yes, my lady, I think you’ll do.” She walked swiftly to the door.

“Tiggle,” George called.

“My lady?”

“Thank you.”

Tiggle actually blushed. “Good luck, my lady.” She grinned and disappeared.

George strolled back into the sitting room and shut the door to her bedroom. She sat down in one of the armchairs by the fire and immediately jumped up; then she crossed to the mantel and inspected the clock sitting upon it. Five minutes after seven o’clock. Perhaps he didn’t have a timepiece? Or maybe he was just a habitually late man? Or perhaps he didn’t intend to come—

Someone knocked at the door.

George froze and stared at it. “Come in.”

Harry Pye opened the door. He hesitated, watching her with the door still ajar behind him.

“Won’t you come in?”

He walked in but left the door open. “Good evening, my lady.” He was at his most indecipherable.

George started babbling. “I thought we might have a quiet dinner to discuss the poisoning and the attack and what we might want to do—”

Footmen appeared at the door—thank goodness!— and started laying the table. Behind came more servants, bearing covered dishes and wine. There was a flurry of activity. She and Harry watched silently as the servants arranged the meal. Finally, most of the servants departed, leaving only one footman to serve dinner. That correct gentleman held the chairs, first for George and then for Harry. They sat and he began ladling the soup.

The room was deathly silent.

George looked from the footman to Harry. “I think we’ll manage, thank you.”

The footman bowed and left.

And they were alone. George peeked at Harry, who was frowning down at his soup. He didn’t care for consommŽ?

She broke her roll, a thunderclap in the quiet. “I hope you didn’t catch a chill from the stream this afternoon?”

Harry lifted his spoon. “No, my lady.”

“Because the stream looked extremely cold.”

“I am fine, my lady. Thank you.”

“Good. Well . . . that’s good.” George chewed and furiously tried to think of something to say. Her mind was a complete blank.

Harry suddenly set his spoon down. “Why did you call me here tonight?”

“I just said—”

“You wanted to talk about the poisoning and the attack, yes, I know.” Harry rose from the table. “But your breasts are all but naked, and you’ve sent the servants away. The other servants. Why do you really want me here?” He stood almost menacingly, his jaw bunched, his hands fisted.

“I . . .” George’s heart quickened. Her nipples had tightened the moment he said breasts.

His eyes flickered down, and she wondered if he knew.