She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. It is Anna again who stands between me and ruin. Her hair was the one part of her that did not exude the air of wealth. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. And the less “anything” happened the better. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. She rapped on Michelle’s door loudly. Anna was singing as she used to sing.
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