"Everything is exactly what I like," he said. "You most of all."

She shook her head, feeling herself grow pink. She put down her knife and fork. "I must go and find the eggs."

"Don't go," he said quickly. "I won't be outra geous, I promise you."

Callie hesitated. Then she picked up her fork, trying to keep her eyes down on her plate and not gaze at him like a moonling. They ate in silence for some moments, while she lectured herself with unspoken vehemence on the folly of a plain woman of twenty seven years, thrice rejected, having any thought at all about a silver-tongued rogue's careless compliments. If she had been more skeptical of him nine years ago, she would not perhaps have suffered quite so painfully.

"It must be quite interesting to grow the grapes for wine." She made a plunge at casual conversation.

He shrugged slightly. "They're grapes," he said, as if that entirely covered the subject.

"Did you find the vineyards at Monceaux badly damaged?" she asked.

"Oh no." He drank a deep swallow of coffee. "Even raging revolutionaries like a good claret."

"I hope your absence won't cause too much disrup tion in the work. It's harvest time there, is it not?"

He lifted his hand carelessly. "There's a vigneron to take care of all that."

"Oh yes," she said, remembering. "The evil Buzot!"

He glanced up with a sharp look, as if her mention of the name startled him.

"Madame asked me to read her letters aloud," she said hastily. "I hope you don't mind."

"Ah, then you know of Buzot." He sat back in his chair. "The fellow howls at the moon and drinks the blood of innocent babes, I assure you. I haven't caught him at it, but that's only because I'm afraid to go out after dark."

"How vexing. But he makes such excellent wine from your grapes."

"Oh, magnificent wine!" he said affably. "It's my belief that he's sold his soul to the devil."

"No wonder that you keep him on." She nodded, buttering bread. "It can't be easy to find someone with such impressive credentials."

"I don't suppose any midnight covens are scheduled to convene in Shelford?" he inquired. "We might discover an exceptional cook."

"I'm afraid that would be quite ineligible. There's no saying what she might put into the pot and pass off as a chicken."

He put down his cup, his eyebrows lifted in alarm. "I hadn't thought of that. Scratch the coven."

"I think we should start with Mr. Rankin."

"Ah. And what has Mr. Rankin to say to it?"

"He still keeps the inn—the Antlers, you know— and will be our prime informant. You mentioned that funds were not greatly restricted?"

"Hire the chef out of Buckingham Palace if he can appear promptly."