‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. ‘I’ve had enough of this. He turned, expecting to see his wife. She added extra chocolate powder to disguise the bitterness of the pill. I heard John was talking about you again from Jenny McIntyre. Ramage?” he asked. It was an easy one to smell early on, Sebastian had taught her: anything reproductive. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. She disengaged her hands and stood up. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. During the week, her uniform was the blue and white scrubs of a nurse, the job she had suffered at for twenty-seven years. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep.
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