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dispatched on his errand, Clermont lingered in the outer room for a moment, staring after him. Then he turned to her, urbane as ever. “I am very grateful for your assistance, Miss Allen.”
    It was a dismissal, unmistakably. He was already moving towards the cabinet-room.
    â€œPlease ring if you need anything,” she said, trying to match his cool tone. “I am afraid my aunt is planning a formal luncheon, but you should have a few hours to work before it is ready.” With the barest of nods, she withdrew, uncertain whether his obvious lack of interest in her was a ruse, an insult, or a relief.
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    By the end of the day, her uncertainties had only multiplied. If Julien Clermont was pursuing her, he was concealing it admirably. When she had returned with the keys nearly two hours later, he was totally absorbed in the diaries and only rose to greet her several seconds after she had come into the room. A tray was out on the table, with the ruler set down next to a particularly fine South American skipper; a quick glance showed that his notebook had several new pages of scribbles in what looked like Latin. He made no excuses to detain her when she unlocked the Drury shelves again after luncheon, and he took his leave politely at five after refusing an invitation from her aunt to stay for dinner.
    Nor did he seem to be cultivating her uncle. His table manners were impeccable, and while the party consumed the countess’s elaborate midday meal he conversed amiably, but he did not display any special interest in politics. In fact, when Sir Charles Barrett—another last minute guest, who had stopped on his way north from Bath to consult her uncle—made some caustic observations about the current disarray in Parliament and solicited Clermont’s views, Clermont shook his head and expressed an utter inability to understand the workings of government. “Insects are much more straightforward,” he had said, smiling.
    â€œEspecially dead ones,” Barrett had retorted.
    Clermont had laughed.
    And yet her aunt, for some reason, clearly believed this visitor was very important. She had seated him at her right. This was not only a flagrant violation of protocol, once Sir Charles had appeared, but a poor tactical choice if her aim was to interest him in Serena, who was necessarily relegated to her uncle’s end of the table. The countess had hovered over Clermont, urging him to try every dish and solicitously changing the topic of conversation if it did not seem to engage him. When the invitation to dinner was declined, she had then asked if perhaps the following evening might be convenient. Pressed so hard, Clermont could not refuse, but even Serena could see that the impetus was all her aunt’s and none of his.
    Most curious of all was Sir Charles’s behavior. Before continuing on towards London he had come to find her in the still-room, where she was struggling once again with her extraction. He was an old family friend—the Barretts’ town house in London adjoined the Bassingtons’, and Sir Charles and the earl often worked together on projects for the Foreign Office—but she had been surprised to see him.
    â€œI beg your pardon,” he had said. “Lady Barrett asked me most particularly to see if you might have a recipe for elderberry syrup.”
    She stared incredulously. Elderberry syrup was so simple that a child could make it. But she went over to her recipe box, pulled out the card, and began to copy it. It took less than one minute, since the recipe said: “Boil one pt. fresh elderberries, crushed and strained, for 1 hr. Add 1/4 cup honey, ginger, and juice of one lemon. Strain twice; top with three fingers brandy and seal.”
    Without comment she handed the card to Sir Charles.
    He sighed. “Miss Allen, you do not make things easy, do you?”
    â€œI prefer honesty,” she said shortly.
    â€œVery well, I shall honor your