“She looked like the loyal type,” Patrick said. He remembered very well the clear, fierce eyes of the girl who had caught Alex’s wife when she fainted at the musicale. Sophie looked at him with such condemnation that her eyes actually haunted him for a few days, until he shook off the memory by chasing and winning Arabella Calhoun, the much-admired singer at the Theatre Royal.

Damnation, Patrick thought with a start. I left Arabella back at Braddon’s house. It was the first time she had crossed his mind since Alex appeared in the doorway of the library. Then he dismissed her with a mental shrug. Bella would always land on her feet.

“Oh, God,” Alex said. His words dropped into the silence filling the hall.

Cecil, the footman in question, nervously cast his eyes at the floor. It sounded as if the earl was sorry for all the problems he caused; it sounded as if the madness was over. Cecil thought nervously of Marie’s whispered analysis. She had said that the earl was the only one who could stop the scandal and allow her mistress to return to society. So should he, Cecil, reveal his mistress’s whereabouts?

Patrick shot a sharp glance at the footman. That man knew where Charlotte had gone, that was certain. But Patrick judged that if he pushed him the servant might become obstinate out of pure loyalty.

“Time for dinner,” he said to the footman. “Is there a chef in the house?”

Cecil nodded. “Oh, yes, my lord, the countess hired a chef immediately. He’s been here for months. His name is Rossi. He’s Italian. The countess—” He looked at his master. “The countess felt that the earl might appreciate Italian food after his sojourn in Italy.”

“Oh, God,” Alex repeated.

“You’re starting to sound like a bronze gong,” Patrick said cheerfully. He pushed open the door to the salon.

“Bring us some drinks, will you? What is your name?”

“Cecil, sir.”

“Well, Cecil, you’re the butler-in-charge. I’d like some whiskey, and so would my brother.”

As the doors swung to behind the gentlemen, Cecil swallowed nervously. Had he done the right thing, keeping it secret that he knew where the countess had gone? No one else in the household knew. They all thought she had set off for Scotland. But of course Marie had told him the truth, that the party was heading for Wales.

Then Cecil trotted off, shelving the problem for the moment. Rossi might be Italian, rather than French, but he was just as temperamental as the French chef in London. He’d need to be warned as soon as possible that he was required to produce a proper seven-course dinner.

In the salon Alex slumped on a couch, staring straight ahead. Patrick wandered around the room, picking up small objects and looking at them absentmindedly.

“This room looks different,” he said.