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the screen. “Hullo, Naomi.”
    Naomi’s voice, compressed into a mosquito whine, emanated from the tiny speaker.
    â€œI’m on my way. Half a tick.” Dylan shoved the phone back into his pocket. “Michael, thank you kindly for looking after me. Molly, thank you for putting up with me, but I’d best be getting on now. Naomi’s apologized. She wants to make it all up.”
    Molly could tell by Michael’s fixed smile that he was thinking the same thing she was: the odds against Naomi and Dylan fixing their relationship were long indeed. But kudos to them for trying.
    The Grahams detailed Irwin to return Dylan to town, and stood side by side watching the estate car vanish down the driveway and into the shadow of the trees.
    They stood there in contented silence for several minutes. Molly considered the slowly fading sunlight—evenings lingered, this time of year—and remembered the golden gleam in Willie’s hand. “What did Willie want to show Hopewell?”
    â€œWe’ve asked ourselves that already,” Michael said, “to no result.”
    â€œWhat’s this about Trevor Hopewell?” The strong female voice behind them was British, but inflected by a lengthy stay in America.
    Molly glanced around to see the tall, spare figure of their housekeeper approaching from the small cottageshe and Irwin shared—in separate quarters. “Hello, Iris. Did you have a good day out?”
    â€œQuite nice, thank you, though I had words with Holly McKenna over the codswallop she was feeding a group of tourists. There are loads of references for Yorkshire’s history, so no need to make things up out of whole cloth, I don’t care if she and Liam did originally come from Cumbria.” Iris’s sharp features beneath her shock of white hair twisted in distaste. As the widow of an American history professor and the author of several historical romances, she had little patience with people who failed to do their research. Molly counted herself lucky that Iris was content to help out at Thorne-Shower, where her mother had once been housekeeper, as well.
    With a few interjected comments from Michael, Molly filled Iris in on their day, starting with Lydia ignoring Addison in order to dance with Michael, and Aleister being upstaged by Hopewell’s dramatic arrival. “The Black Sea Pearl, ” said Iris. “That caused a sensation, and no mistake. There was Aleister almost flinging Lydia into Hopewell’s arms, while Addison stood by looking as grim as a rejected suitor in an Austen novel. But then, Lydia was quite happy to flutter her lashes at Hopewell and prattle on about her adventures as a tunnel rat.”
    â€œAnd Aleister didn’t stop her?”
    â€œAleister looked very pleased with himself, as usual.”
    â€œHmm, sounds like Aleister is doing a little match-making,” Molly said with a grin.
    â€œMost likely he’s doing business with Hopewell Transport,” Michael told her.
    â€œWhere’s your sense of romance?” she replied.
    â€œExcuse me?” he countered. “I thought we were doing quite well when it came to romance.”
    Grinning, Molly went on, “No surprise Hopewell would be interested in the tunnels—we’ve already seen that he’s interested in treasure. So has Willie Myners.” She told Iris about the conversation she’d overheard on the Black Sea Pearl, and Willie’s further adventures with Naomi and Dylan.
    The estate car returned up the driveway and stopped in the parking area. Jingling the keys in his hand, Irwin greeted Iris and gave his own account of Fotherby’s intrusion into the house. “Willie’s a layabout and a sneak,” he added, “with a criminal record to boot. Dylan’s not the only Blackpooler who’d be happy to see him walking Hopewell’s plank.”
    â€œMetaphorically speaking,” added Iris.
    â€œSo we