Perhaps Henrietta’s presence explained Oliver’s sudden acquiescence to professional help with the gardens and his early return from London. They’d known each other since they were small children, but she’d worked in London until recently and he’d... Well, Oliver had a variety of ways he kept himself busy.
Henrietta’s extended visits to the Cotswolds had started when she was five or six, most often on her own. Her parents, born-and-bred Londoners, loathed Posey’s “chocolate box” village. They’d steal away on exotic holidays, leaving Henrietta to amuse herself by helping her great-aunt with her gardens. Although she’d had no children of her own, Posey had doted on Henrietta, the only other female Balfour.
Martin had been heartened by Oliver’s interest in his somewhat neglected landscaping but suspected it had more to do with his attractive garden designer. He and Henrietta had played together as children, creating an easy familiarity that still existed between them. Martin didn’t want to read too much into his observations. Oliver could have ulterior motives. He often did. Martin had learned to be wary. He didn’t like to be a suspicious sort but it came with keeping his promise to Nicholas and Priscilla.
At the same time, Martin had to acknowledge an undercurrent, warning him something about Henrietta Balfour’s charming eccentricities was off—not faked so much as unpracticed. Perhaps her move to the Cotswolds from London and her radical career change explained the disconnect.
She dipped her gloved hands into the bag, set on the worn stone landing in front of the dovecote. “Sentimental value counts for something, don’t you think, Oliver?”
The pair were familiar enough with each other they’d never bothered with “Mr. York” and “Ms. Balfour.” Oliver didn’t answer. Instead, without a word or so much as a grunt, he gave a curt wave, spun around and shot back out to the narrow lane that ran along the southern edge of the farm. It was a gray morning but it wasn’t wet, although there was talk of rain later in the day.
Henrietta rolled back onto her heels and frowned, hands deep in the bag of soil. “He can be like that, can’t he?”
Martin knew there was no point denying the obvious. “He can.”
“The lads down the pub say he can be dashing and sweet, too.”
Not in Martin’s experience, but he let it go. “What kind of flowers do you have in mind?”
“Depends where we decide to put the pot. It’s a gem, isn’t it? I do like the idea of having it out here.”
“You love old rubbish, do you?”
She smiled, her eyes lighting up despite Oliver’s rudeness. “Especially if it has sentimental value. Does Oliver remember his great-grandmother?”
“It’s possible. She died when he was three.”
“I don’t remember, of course, her but you must.”
Martin nodded. “I do. She was a lovely lady. She expanded the gardens here, although it was her daughter-in-law, Oliver’s grandmother, who converted the dovecote into a potting shed.”
“I remember Priscilla, of course. She and Aunt Posey were friends.” Henrietta dumped two heaping handfuls of soil into the pot, atop what he’d dug from the hillside. “We’re not going to discover Oliver bought this pot at a white-elephant sale and forgot about it, are we?”
“I’m sure we won’t. I can vouch for it. I remember his great-grandmother planting flowers in this very pot.”
“It’s a forgotten family heirloom, then. What kind of flowers were they, do you recall?”
Martin managed a genuine smile. “Dahlias. Peach-colored dahlias.”
Henrietta smiled again, wispy curls escaping her hair clip. “Perfect. Consider it done.”
Martin left her to her work. He didn’t see Oliver, or anyone else for that matter, on the lane, part of one of the marked, public walking trails that crisscrossed the Cotswolds. He could hear Henrietta humming now that she was rid of both him and Oliver. Continuing simply to tend the gardens was no longer sufficient but the process of overhauling them would take time. Martin had seen her in recent years on her visits with her aunt, but he knew little about her life in London. She was friendly and amusing, but she didn’t invite that kind of intimacy. Although charming and delightful in many ways, she was all about her work. These days discovering old pots was Henrietta Balfour’s idea of excitement.
Martin walked up the lane toward the farmhouse. After a spell of warm, clear days, he appreciated the cloudy sky and looked forward to a shower. The gray weather brought out the smells of early summer and suited his mood. He hadn’t missed joining Oliver in London, but he had to admit to a certain uneasy restlessness. It wasn’t like Oliver to go this long without getting into some kind of trouble. Even MI5 hadn’t contacted him in weeks. Oliver hadn’t acknowledged he was working with British intelligence—and he never would—but Martin knew better. There were subjects between them that were understood but never discussed and that was one of them.
A scream penetrated his brooding. He jumped, nearly tripping. His first thought was an accident involving one of the farm workers. Then he realized it was Ruthie Burns, Oliver’s housekeeper. In another moment, he spotted her at the lane’s intersection with a path up to the main house. She was running madly toward the dovecote, her arms pumping at ninety degrees at her sides as she picked up speed.
“Help! He’s dying. Dear God. Help!”
Although not one of Martin’s favorite people, Ruthie wasn’t prone to hyperbole or overreacting. He felt a jolt of adrenaline. Did she mean Oliver? Was he the one who was dying?
Henrietta burst up the lane from the dovecote. “What’s happened?” she asked, intense but steady. She’d removed her garden gloves and didn’t seem impeded by her long skirt.
“I don’t know yet,” Martin said.
She pointed a slender, dirt-covered hand up the lane. “That’s Ruthie, isn’t it?”
Martin nodded. The stout housekeeper was in her sixties, a few years older than he was, and had worked for the Yorks almost as long as he had. He felt an unwelcome tightness in his throat but forced himself to maintain his poise and equilibrium. Hysteria wouldn’t do anyone a bit of good.
Henrietta started toward Ruthie. “No,” Martin said. “Stay here. I’ll handle whatever’s happened.”
“Not alone, Martin. I’m going, too.”
He took in her natural sense of command, her composure, her directness—and he knew. He’d been expecting them to emerge. Any suspicions he’d had about her had transformed to certainty.
Henrietta Balfour was MI5.
Martin shook off the thought. Who and what Henrietta was didn’t matter now. They needed to get to Ruthie and find out what had her in a panic. He pushed forward but didn’t break into a run. Henrietta eased next to him, clearly holding herself back from charging ahead. She was younger and fitter, but it wasn’t just that. She hadn’t hesitated. She’d relied on training, experience—perhaps just her nature but Martin doubted it. It was something more.
In thirty seconds, they intercepted Ruthie. She