"If you wouldn't mind," she finally said, "I'd prefer to stay here. I have much to learn to run this household."
"You have Mrs. Oliver for that."
"It's still my responsibility to oversee everything properly." She set down her teacup.
She had another matter to broach, and there was no sense putting it off.
But as he bit into his toast, she found herself putting it off anyway and looking about the room instead. "How unusual to see wood gilded in a mosaic pattern like that," she said inanely, referring to the walls.
"It's not wood." He set down the toast and lifted his cup. "It's gold-stamped leather."
"Is it? I've never seen anything like it."
He sipped and gave her a wry smile. "It was all the rage a hundred and fifty years ago. I'm told it's supposed to absorb the smells of food, but it doesn't seem to me that it works."
"Well, thank goodness for that. A century and a half of accumulated food scents would be a bit much, don't you think?"
He chuckled, and she drew a deep breath. "How long will you be gone today?"
"I'm not certain. It depends upon what I encounter. Perhaps a few hours, perhaps until evening." He sipped again, watching her over the cup's rim. "My offer is still open for you to come along."
Although it sounded like a sincere invitation, he didn't look like he particularly wanted her to accept it. "I think I should stay here," she repeated and squared her shoulders. "But when you return later, perhaps we can discuss strategy."
"For removing scents from the walls?"
"For mounting a new search for your uncle's murderer."
His cup clattered back to its saucer. "No."
The bruises on his face were fading, but it seemed nothing else had changed. "We must clear your name, Tris," she said carefully. "For my sisters' sakes if not your own."
His gray gaze was resolute. "I told you before, I have no wish to reopen that coil of a case. There can be no good outcome. Either my uncle died in his sleep, in which case there's nothing to find, or…"
His voice trailed off.
The haunted look in his eyes broke her heart. "You cannot think the only other alternative is that you killed him."
But clearly he did think that. "Just leave this alone, Alexandra."
She swallowed hard. She had to make him understand. "Does my happiness mean so little to you?"
"Not ten minutes ago, you told me you were happy beyond belief. Have your feelings changed that quickly?"
"For myself, I'm happy. But there are others involved."
"You had alternate offers," he reminded her. "Perhaps you should have accepted Lord Shelton or Roger St. Quentin."
A lump rose in her throat. The thought of marriage to either of those men made her breakfast sour in her stomach, but had she doomed her sisters as a result of her selfishness?
"I apologize," he said stiffly, watching her. "That was unfair."
"No, you're right. I wanted you," she said, suddenly fearing she'd made a terrible mistake. "But I also want your name cleared. And, Tris…you're not responsible for your uncle's death. There's no reason not to investigate."
His jaw tense, he sat silent a long moment. "I must be off," he finally said in a neutral tone. "We shall continue this discussion tonight."
After giving her a perfunctory kiss, he left.
She sat stunned for a while, her wonderful mood from the morning shattered. She tried to finish her tea, but she couldn't swallow past her tight throat. Finally she rose, fed the rest of her toast to Rex, and went upstairs to grab her family's cookbook.
Then, as she often did when she was upset, she headed for the kitchen.
Unfortunately, she had no idea where it was—Tris's tour last night hadn't included anything as mundane as the servants' quarters. But this morning she'd noticed a back passageway off the great hall, so she decided to try there first.
No sooner had she wandered into the gray-painted corridor than she bumped into a housemaid hurrying the other direction. "Pardon, my lady!" The girl's cheeks turned bright pink.
"Goodness, it was my fault entirely." Alexandra wracked her brain for the girl's name. "I wonder, Anne, if you could direct me to the kitchen?"
Anne beamed. "Right this way, my lady." Carrying a mop, broom, and bucket, she led Alexandra down another chilly corridor to a staircase. "It's in the basement. Shall I show you?"
"I'm certain I can find it. Thank you, Anne."
"Thank you, my lady." Still smiling and holding everything, Anne gave an awkward curtsy and walked off while Alexandra went down the stairs.
A row of leather buckets hung overhead, pointing the way to the kitchen—always the biggest fire hazard in any house. Busy plucking a chicken, Mrs. Pawley looked up when Alexandra entered her domain.
"Good morning, my lady! I wasn't expecting you to 'invade my kitchen' quite so soon." She wiped her hands on her wide, white apron. "Did you enjoy your breakfast?"
"Very much." The room was a hive of activity: kitchen maids chopping and slicing while scullery maids scurried here and there, hauling pans and implements off to be washed. A small boy stood turning a spit. Alexandra sighed. "I thought to perhaps make some gingerbread, but—"
"Come in, come in." Mrs. Pawley shooed two kitchen maids away from the large central table. "Show me your book."
Alexandra handed it over. "It's been in my family for well over a century."
The cook flipped several pages. "This sounds delicious. And this." She looked up. "Are all the recipes for sweets?"
"The Chases do all share a sweet tooth." Despite her blue mood, Alexandra smiled as she reclaimed the old book. "Each lady in the family adds a recipe every Christmas. I'll have to
