—Lady Diana Caldwell, 1692
IT TOOK A LOT of sugar cakes to feed a village.
At half-past noon, barely an hour after Tris left, Mrs. Pawley took the fourth pan out of the oven and brought it over to where Alexandra was spreading glaze on top. "Might I pour you more sherry?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Pawley." The small glass Alexandra had finished was quite enough—just enough, in fact, to take the edge off her disappointment that she wouldn't be able to clear Tris's name. Just enough so she could smile and laugh and pretend that everything was all right.
Although, of course, it wasn't.
More than half a glass of anything alcoholic made her very giggly or put her to sleep. When the cook had suggested they have a wee taste of the sherry before adding it to the recipe, she hadn't expected to finish the bottle. But Mrs. Pawley was making a good dent in it.
"I'll just have another myself, if you don't mind." The cook filled her glass for the third time and sipped, watching Alexandra swirl the sugary mixture onto the cakes with a knife. "You do that very prettily, my dear."
"Thank you. My mother taught me how to do this. And my father's mother taught her, I expect, considering the age of the recipe."
Mrs. Pawley smiled and sipped again, one eye on all the activity in the kitchen. While Alexandra wouldn't normally approve of Hawkridge's cook drinking wine while she worked, Mrs. Pawley seemed unaffected, and she couldn't argue with the woman's results. Her meals were exquisite, and her kitchen was spotless.
The woman did, however, have a smudge of flour on her little button nose that Alexandra itched to wipe away. "I know your father was Hawkridge's last cook," she said to distract herself, "but did your mother work here as well?"
"Bless her, she did. Started as a scullery maid before she caught m'father's eye." The cook's blue eyes danced. "'Course she became his assistant in short order."
Alexandra smiled. "I imagine she did like that better than scrubbing dishes."
"No one aspires to stay a scullery maid long. If a girl cannot expect advancement—"
At the sudden silence, Alexandra looked up from the pan of cakes. "What is it, Mrs. Pawley?"
"I just remembered. There was a scullery maid—Beth, she was called—went to Armstrong House a few years ago for a better position. She was here that night—the night his lordship's uncle died. Will you be wanting to ask questions of her as well?"
"Goodness, yes." The news lifted Alexandra's spirits more than an entire bottle of sherry. "How far is Armstrong House?"
"An hour or less on horseback. You'll just need to follow the river."
"Lord Hawkridge would prefer I take a carriage." There was no reason to ignore his wishes completely. He'd doubtless be angry she'd gone at all, but she couldn't very well ignore an opportunity to solve their problems, could she?
Not and live with herself.
"May I prevail on you to finish these?" She shoved the pan toward the cook. "I have to change my dress, and have a carriage brought round, and find a footman to accompany Peggy and myself." She was already headed toward the door. "They need only a few more minutes in the oven; when the icing has hardened, they're done."
Half an hour later, plans for her journey in place, she returned to fetch a few sugar cakes to bring along with her to Armstrong House. She couldn't very well arrive empty-handed.
After yesterday's rain, the day was beautiful. She opened the carriage windows to let in the sunshine and fresh air. Ernest, the footman she'd recruited to accompany her, rode up on the box with the coachman, and Peggy sat with her inside. No sooner had they started rolling than Peggy pulled a basket out from under the seat and began filling plates for them both.
"What's this?" Alexandra asked.
"Luncheon. You missed breakfast. I won't have you wasting away from starvation."
Alexandra laughed, suddenly realizing she'd forgotten to eat. She supposed she'd been too upset to really care. But now that her investigation was open again, she felt famished.
Peggy truly was a dear for taking care of her so well. She piled cold meats, cheese, pickles, and fruits on both their plates. "No strawberries for me," Alexandra told her. "I cannot eat them."
Peggy handed her a plate before adding a few strawberries to her own. "Why is that?"
"They make my tongue swell and my throat feel tight. It's really quite dreadful. The last time it happened, I thought I might perish from a lack of air."
"That is dreadful," Peggy said, her eyes wide.
Throughout the drive, Peggy kept up a running conversation that required little more than nods and murmurs from Alexandra. Sooner than she expected, they arrived at Armstrong House. Although smaller than Hawkridge, it was obviously the home of a wealthy man. It looked to have been extended many times over the years and was now a sprawling mishmash of styles—medieval, Tudor, Stuart, and more modern.
"Wait here," she told Peggy. "I shouldn't think this will take long."
"Oh, but I haven't seen Beth in years," Peggy said in a pleading tone.
"Very well, then. Come along."
Alexandra put a smile on her face as she approached the door with her sweets. "Lady Hawkridge," she told the green-liveried manservant who answered, her new name sounding strange on her tongue. "Here to visit with the lady of the house, if you please."
"Pardon me, but there is no lady. Lady Armstrong breathed her last in the spring."
Only then did she notice his black armband. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Is there no one to whom I may pay my respects?"
"Lord Armstrong has gone up to London. Only Miss Leticia is at home."
Miss Leticia Armstrong. Sweet heaven, wasn't that the name of the woman who had once been engaged to Tris? Alexandra hadn't put two and two together when Mrs. Pawley mentioned Armstrong House, but now she was dying of curiosity.
She reached into her basket. "Would you care for a sugar cake?" The footman looked startled but took
