She never had to explain herself at Skirmidge House; she did what needed doing and took sole responsibility for her domain. Collaboration was a novelty, and for all the growing joy and hope of—well, of something with Fen, she had forgotten about working together the moment it proved inconvenient. She would have to apologise for that, hope Fen understood, and make sure she didn’t do it again, because it simply wasn’t on. Pat made a firm mental note to herself on the subject of letting other people have a say, and set off down the corridor to the West Wing stairs.

She was half way down when she heard the whistle, a sharp two-note sound.

She knew those notes. It was Bill’s whistle, the one the Merton boys had used to summon each other when they’d roamed Stoke St. Milborough as a pack, and Pat ran without hesitation, clutching her skirts, trying to follow the sound. It had been faint with distance, but it had come from this direction—

She swung round a corner and heard voices from the library.

It was a large room, well lit with a good-sized window, and everyone was there. Jimmy and Bill stood together, visibly tense. Preston and Victoria were by the window. Her brows were drawn together; he had a keen look that she’d seen him wear on the shoot. Lady Anna stood against a bookshelf, very pale, eyes darting. Fen sat in a chair in the middle of the room, very stiff and straight. And Jack Bouvier-Lynes was behind her with one hand on her shoulder, the other resting casually in his pocket.

“What’s going on? What are you doing, Jack?” Pat’s voice sounded odd, almost echoey, in her own ears.

“As I told the others.” Jack’s smile was a show of teeth; his eyes flickered between her and the men. “I was just having a little chat with Miss Carruth about how very unkind gossip and slander can be.”

“Just get away from her,” Jimmy said. “Let’s talk about this sensibly.”

“I know what your sensible talk means,” Jack said. “It means brushing everything that doesn’t suit you under the carpet. Finding a scapegoat. Well, I don’t choose to be brushed away, or made a scapegoat because my family doesn’t go back to the Domesday Book. The Wittons always wanted Maurice gone because he wasn’t the right sort. Not good enough, not up to snuff, not one of us. Then Jimmy decided to blame him for the Earl’s handing of Threppel and Swing, and now he can’t defend himself any more, can he? And they’re all closing ranks against me the same way. You can see them doing it, can’t you, Anna? Coming up with a tissue of lies to shift the blame and avoid awkward questions. You see I have to defend myself against that, don’t you?”