“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. Brendon made a quick movement forward. The day was sunny and pleasant, devoid of chill winds. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. “I’ll be here at one in the morning. .
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