“But they told me you were spending Christmas in Scotland with the family,” he muttered to me.

“Who told you?”

“I tried to telephone you. Your sister-in-law instructed the butler to tell me,” he said. “‘Her Grace wishes me to tell you that Lady Georgiana will be unavailable over the Christmas celebration. It is to be a family affair.’ Those were the very words, I seem to remember.”

“The absolute cow,” I said. Darcy laughed. “She never mentioned that you’d telephoned. How utterly spiteful of her.”

“She doesn’t approve of me. I lead you astray, remember? So what made you leave the bosom of the family Christmas?”

“Fig’s family was descending en masse. More than body and soul could endure.”

“But what are you doing here of all places? I had no idea that you knew my aunt.”

“Darcy dear, do help yourself to tea,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

I could hardly say that I had answered an advertisement in front of the paying guests, so I leaned forward and poured Darcy a cup of tea. Our fingers touched as I handed it to him and I felt a shiver run all the way up my arm.

“And, Georgiana, perhaps after tea you can take the young people into the study and make plans for the things you’d like to do over Christmas. I do so want you young folk to enjoy yourselves.”

“I expect you’d like to go out for a ride in the morning, Darcy,” Bunty said, pulling up her chair closer. “Do you remember what fun we had the last time you were here and we went out riding on the moor?”

“I hardly think we’d be wise to take the horses on the moor in the snow, Bunty,” he said. “We’d never see the bogs.” He looked up with a grin. “By the way, how is your wild girl—Sally, is she? Still going strong?”

“Wild girl?” Mrs. Wexler asked nervously.

“Not really wild, just strange,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said rapidly. “A strange young woman who lives alone on the moor.” She attempted a gay laugh. “Yes, she’s still going strong.”

“And how is the village where nothing ever happens?” Darcy went on gaily. “That’s what you said last time I was here, Bunty.”

“Just as quiet and peaceful as ever,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said again rapidly. “A perfect little backwater. England the way it used to be. And that’s how we love it. Ah, here is my husband, finally.”

And Sir Oswald came in, still wearing his dreadful old tweed jacket, plus fours, old socks and boots. “Damned fellow didn’t muck out the pigs properly,” he said. “Had to do it myself.” And he promptly sat down next to Mrs. Rathbone. “God, I’m famished. Mucking out pigsties certainly brings on an appetite.”

I heard Darcy stifle a chuckle as Mrs. Rathbone moved hastily to the far end of the sofa.