A Christmas Escape Read Free Page B

Charles.
    “Oh, yes,” Charles agreed heartily. “Of course I like.”
    Stefano took one, cracked it to remove the inner flesh, and offered it to Charles. “You tell me, is good enough for our guests?”
    Charles ate it enthusiastically. “Oh, very definitely,” he said with a smile. “Are they good enough for these? If not, then we had better keep them for us.”
    “You are a bad man, signor
,
” Stefano said happily. “You tempt me. Perhaps we should try another, yes? Just to make sure…”

    A t luncheon, Charles was introduced to the rest of the guests at the house.
    Candace came into the dining room looking demure and very well behaved. She glanced at him once, almost shyly, and then looked away. She was accompanied by an elderly man, who was tall, thin, and white-haired. He had a mild face, which was ascetic and a little pale except for the beginning of sunburn on his nose and high cheekbones.
    “Roger Finbar,” he introduced himself. “You must be Latterly. How do you do? This is my great-niece, Candace Finbar.”
    “How do you do, sir?” Charles replied. Then he glanced at Candace as if he had not seen her before, and saw the relief brilliant in her eyes for an instant, then gone again. “Miss Finbar,” he acknowledged her.
    The only other woman in the party was decidedly handsome, but in a calm and gentle way that did not especially appeal to Charles. She could not have been the heroine of a book anyone would have entitled
Fire
. She was introduced by Finbar as Mrs. Isla Bailey.
    “Where is your husband?” Finbar asked to fill the momentary silence when the polite acknowledgments had been made.
    “Not returned yet from his walk,” Mrs. Bailey replied. “He must have gone farther than he intended. Please don’t wait for him.”
    “Certainly not,” another man agreed, coming into the room from the opposite door. He was of at least average height with fair hair and dull, precise features. He was very casually dressed, but Charles could tell at a glance that his clothes were of excellent quality and perfectly tailored to his slightly lopsided physique.
    He gave a faint bow, more just a gesture of his head.
    “Percival Quinn,” he murmured. “I presume you are Latterly, the final member of our group?”
    “Yes, Mr. Quinn. How do you do, sir?” Charles acknowledged him. He regarded Quinn with interest. So this was the man who had written the book about the woman who had filled her life with such passion. Charles was inclined to agree with Candace; Quinn did not look like a man whose imagination could create such a work. Perhaps this went to show that it was one of life’s classic mistakes to judge the heart or mind of a person by the cast of their features!
    Just as everyone had chosen a place at the single long table, they were joined by another man. There was no hesitation in Charles’s mind as to his identity. He was tall, very straight-backed and square-shouldered. His upper lip was decorated with a meticulously trimmed mustache and his cheeks were of rich color from the sun- and windburn of many seasons. This had to be Colonel Bretherton.
    “Late,” Bretherton said unhappily. “I apologize. Mrs. Bailey, Miss Finbar.” He looked at Charles as he pulled out his chair with a slight squeak as its legs scraped the floor. “Bretherton. You must be Latterly. How do you do, sir?”
    Stefano bustled in with steaming pasta to add to the vegetables and the huge dish of prawns. He beamed at his guests, bade them welcome, and told them to enjoy. There were glasses on the table, and a carafe of wine from which they were to help themselves.
    There was only one chair unoccupied.
    Into this pleasant gathering the last member arrived late. He was a middle-aged man, vigorous and wiry. His brown hair was receding slightly, making his broad brow even more prominent. Now he looked irritated.
    “I see you have begun without me.” It sounded very much like a criticism as he pulled his chair out, banging