It was a strange letter, fervently written but repellent to Callie's mind; a washing of one's linen in a public newspaper that hardly seemed appropriate to any situ ation. The name Fowler seemed distantly familiar, but it was common enough and there was no reference in the letter to any trial. The remainder of the page was taken up with a description of a concert by an Italian violinist, a discussion of the new Navigation Act, and three advertisements for linen drapers. Callie had smoothed the paper, folded it again, and placed it in her pocket diary. It disturbed her in some way that she couldn't quite fathom, but she found it impossible to discard.

She was carrying the diary when at last she had herself driven to Dove House a week after her return from the disastrous fair at Hereford. She dreaded to call, but when she heard that Lilly had sent to Mrs. Adam for the ingredients for a chest plaster, Callie felt she must look in on the duchesse. Constable Hubble was sitting opposite the garden gate, perched on a crate with the remains of a substantial luncheon about him. He put aside his mug and a half-eaten pie and stood hastily as the trap drew up, straightening his coat with a stern look.

When he recognized Callie, he eased his severe expression and pulled off his hat. "Afternoon, my lady." He offered a rough hand to help her down. "We ain't caught 'im yet, ma'am, but I've set a net, as you can see. We'll snap him up if he comes near, mark my words."

"A net?" She paused, glancing up from the gener ously packed food basket at his feet.

"Aye, ma'am. I'm here m'self, in the f lesh, as you might say, and I got my boys posted both ends up the village, that I do, my lady. He won't get past us!"

Callie relaxed slightly. She had thought for a moment that he meant a real net, one capable of actu ally trapping someone. Once she understood that it consisted of the constable and his two lads barricading the single road through Shelford—well provisioned by Cook, too, it appeared—her immediate alarm receded. Trev was out of the country by now in any case, so there was little fear that Constable Hubble would be required to desert his picnic basket in the line of duty.

"Thank you," she said. "That relieves my mind. I hope you enjoyed your dinner?"

"Aye, my lady, that I did. Her's a mighty cook, that woman come to work for the poor duchesse. Her can make a kidney pudding to rival my old Fanny's, rest her soul, and I wouldn't say that about nobody else."

It was high praise indeed, this comparison to Constable Hubble's beloved late wife. Callie nodded. "I'm pleased to hear it. But do you say the duchesse is poorly?"