She was met at the front door not by a butler or a maid, but by Pamela Raines Barrett herself. Alex Harrington had obviously called his fiancée, told her this was an important interview, and Pam didn’t want to appear a snob. She looked very stylish in another black Armani suit, a white-as-snow turtleneck sweater under the jacket, three-inch Louboutin heels on her narrow feet. Her dark hair was loose, worn around her shoulders, lovely really, pulled back from her face by two golden barrettes.

Mia knew Pam was examining her thoroughly as well, all in a split second, a skill all women seemed to share. Then she smiled, a lovely welcoming smile, showing perfect white teeth.

“Ms. Briscoe? I’m Pamela Barrett. Please come in.”

They shook hands and Mia stepped into a rather small entrance hall displaying an antique table with gorgeous winter mums in a blue colonial vase, an equally old mirror above it, and a single ladder-back chair. For those waiting for an audience? Pamela laid Mia’s coat and scarf neatly on the chair and showed her into a living room that made Mia catch her breath, as it was meant to. The walls were painted a vivid dark red, the intricate moldings a stark white. The room wasn’t large, but neither was it overloaded with antiques. It was sparsely furnished, minimalist even, reflecting Pamela’s decorating style. Artful splashes of color brightened the room, making it warm and welcoming. Mia wondered how deep the town house went, with how many livable floors. She would like to see the kitchen and bathrooms. She wondered how many times they’d been redesigned and updated, certainly a few since the town house was built back in the time of the Colonial Ark, or thereabouts.

“Your home is lovely.”

“Thank you. My grandmother deeded this house to me because she knew I’d tend it, keep it fresh and loved.” Pam waved a graceful hand, her seven-carat engagement ring shimmering even in the soft light. “Please sit down. You like your coffee black, I know.” She poured, without waiting for an answer, from a silver Georgian pot Paul Revere himself might have fashioned, into impossibly fragile-looking porcelain cups Queen Charlotte herself might have used more than two centuries before.

Mia merely raised an eyebrow.

Pamela laughed. “Alex told me you like your coffee straight. He’s very observant. He was pleased you wanted to come to Boston to meet with me but he did warn me you’d probably try to pry all sorts of secrets about him out of me.” She laughed again as she passed Mia her coffee. “Of course I’ve read your blogs, Ms. Briscoe. I find you—” She paused.

“Too far to the left? Too far to the right? Too conventional?”