‘Not the lead actress, apparently.’ But Libby, Anton or one of his ‘stakeholders’ had ripped a page from the script and used it as a blackmail note. A way of telling her that she had to pay attention, that the person who had her photos had the ear of her director, too.

Maybe Libby was too obvious a suspect. If she’d wanted to blackmail Posy, using the script pages was about as obvious as signing the damn note. No, Posy didn’t think Libby was behind this. Which meant she had to talk to Anton next, and find out who else had the script – or if he was behind it himself. Why a director would try to blackmail his lead actress was beyond her, but she wasn’t ruling anything out yet.

Where was Anton, anyway? And Kit for that matter? She hadn’t seen them since this morning. If she had to take part in this convention, why didn’t they?

Libby was peering over Posy’s shoulder again, but when Posy looked she couldn’t see anything behind her except the window, and the guy in the Christmas jumper telling cracker jokes at the dessert table.

‘I’m sure you’ll get it soon,’ Libby said, but she sounded distracted. Draining her coffee cup, she placed it too close to the edge of the windowsill, and it clattered to the ground, splashing the dregs of her coffee over her skirt. ‘Oh, damn it!

Aware that people were turning to look at them, Posy dropped to her knees at Libby’s side, thrusting a napkin from the nearest table towards her. Together, they mopped up the few drops that had hit the carpet, and righted the coffee cup beside the saucer that had shattered into several pieces as the cup landed on it, before Isobel came bustling over.

‘Are you okay? Where are the catering staff ?’ One hand on her hip, Isobel wafted some paper towels towards them, but didn’t get down and help. ‘This is why Hugh told Marcus we didn’t want the daytime events inside the house.’

‘It’s fine,’ Posy told her, straightening up. ‘I think Libby got the worst of it.’

‘Oh, you poor dear. Did it scald you? I have some cream somewhere …’ Isobel fussed over Libby with a concerned smile.

One of the catering staff, dressed as a 1930s domestic maid, hurried across the room to them, and Isobel handed her a wodge of coffee-stained paper towels. ‘Ah, there you are! Can you finish clearing this up, please?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’ The maid knew her part well, it seemed. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I was just fixing a camomile and ginger tea for Mr Fisher.’