Page 15 of Speculations in Sin

“I know.” Daniel’s mirth evaporated. “I’ve seen too many bad things while trying to do good. It’s tiring, Kat.”

I wanted to give him a comforting caress, but with Mr. Davis staring, I could do no such thing.

“Hug James for me, if he will allow it,” I said. “I will be grateful for any help you can give me with Joanna’s plight. Sometimes we have to plow through bad things to find the good things once more.”

Daniel’s expression cleared, and his sunny smile returned. “Such a wise woman you are, Mrs. Holloway. Wisdom and beauty in one wonderful lady.”

I warmed under his flattery but made myself roll my eyes. “Now you sound like your reprobate brother. Save your charm for those who will succumb to it. Good day, Mr. McAdam,” I said loudly. “I will take a crate of those oranges. Put them in the larder, please.”

I turned my back on Daniel and strode to the house. “I amwell, Mr. Davis,” I said as I started past him down the stairs. “I can pore over fruit and vegetables without danger. No need to look out for me.”

“I was not.” Mr. Davis’s tones were as cold as the winter air. “I need to ask you what has become of the Beaujolais I’d reserved for Mr. Bywater’s guests this evening. He has invited his colleagues from the City for wine and discussion.”

I glanced back at him. “Do you mean the bottles I decanted for last night’s meal? You left them out in your pantry, I assumed for supper. And the Viognier. They went well with my roast.”

Mr. Davis’s sigh rattled the air. “No, those were for tonight. The bottle of Côtes du Rhône and the sweet white set on a table right next to the door were for last night.”

I recalled seeing those bottles as I’d scanned the butler’s pantry for any clue as to where Mr. Davis might have gone.

“Well, as you’d left the corkscrew near the Beaujolais and no further instruction, I cannot be to blame.” I did not fault him for being angry at me for entering his private chamber, but I would not accept responsibility for every other mistake in the house. “There might be something left in the decanters.”

“I will begin leaving lengthy documents of all I intend for the meals, if it will help,” Mr. Davis said in biting tones. “I was called away unexpectedly. I had no time to explain.”

I halted in the open space at the bottom of the stairs. At the top, Daniel began climbing down, the crate of oranges in his strong arms.

“Let us not argue,” I said when Mr. Davis reached me. “I apologize for being a busybody, but I acted out of concern for your well-being. I understand why you dashed off, and I am sorry for your friend. Let us continue as we were, please.”

“I have heard your explanation and comprehend it,” Mr. Davis said loftily. “Your solicitude is appreciated, but I have not yet decided whether to forgive you.”

His words stung, but I had to tell myself I’d feel the same if I’d come across him going throughmythings. We all had secrets we did not want exposed.

“While you are deciding, please make clear which wines should be served with the meals,” I said, entering the scullery. “And I shall leave you in peace.”

“I am pleased to hear it, Mrs. Holloway. Be careful with that, you.”

Mr. Davis addressed the last words to Daniel, who’d landed at the door while we’d gone through it, a corner of the crate nearly hitting Mr. Davis in the back.

“Sorry, guv,” Daniel said in his good-natured way. “Stairs are slippery.”

Mr. Davis made a noise of exasperation and strode through the scullery to the kitchen and out, making his way to the sanctuary of his pantry.

“Those look ever so nice.” Tess set aside the peas she’d been shelling and came forward to peep at the oranges Daniel set on the dresser. “Did you pick ’em yourself?”

“Too cold here to grow them, except in a hothouse.” Daniel rested one arm on the side of the crate, as though settling in for a chat. “I know a chap who has an orangery—which is like a very large hothouse. Sells to us lackeys sometimes. When I lived in the south of France, I could walk outside my doorstep and harvest my breakfast from the orange and lemon trees there.”

I’d returned to my onions and gave him a frown, but I wondered if his tale was true. Daniel had lived in Paris for a time, where he’d helped stop assassins, he’d told me. He might havealso sojourned in Marseille or Nice or another town on the south shore of that country. In what guise? I wondered. For his own pleasure, or had he been tracking some nefarious criminal?

“I wish I could go to the south of France,” Tess said dreamily.

“One day, maybe you will,” Daniel said, dispensing optimism as usual.

Tess laughed. “Don’t speak no French, do I? Except for what Mrs. Holloway teaches me, and that’s only about food.” She resumed her stool and peas, gazing longingly at the vivid oranges that peeked from the drab crate. They brightened the room. “What will you do with all those, Mrs. H.?”

“A number of things,” I answered. “An orange-flavored almond cake. Some sorbet, perhaps served in cups cut from the oranges themselves. We can trim them into pretty shapes.”

“Mmm.” Daniel closed his eyes, enraptured. “You’ll be sure to save some of that for your hardworking Mr. McAdam, won’t you?”

“Oranges are expensive,” I said. “I imagine there won’t be any leavings. Those are supposed to go into the larder, you know.” I gestured at the crate with my knife as Daniel opened his eyes again.

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