She said it in the hall at Ashdown Park at a quarter to 7:00 in a low, cool voice while she drew on her long white gloves. She did not look at the young woman she was talking about. Her eyes were on the tall gilt mirror by the stairs, adjusting the diamond tiara in her gray curls.Her son, Sir Reginald, glanced at his sister-in-law and shrugged.Her daughter, Lavinia, 19 years old and dressed in white silk with pearls in her hair, did not even glance. Lavinia was thinking about the duke.And Grace Ashdown, 26 years old, 2 years a widow, in a plain black dress buttoned to the throat, curtsied to her mother-in-law and said, "Yes, ma'am."And went down the back stairs to the kitchen.She did not tell them that she had cooked the dinner they were about to eat. The cook, Mrs. Dawlish, had scalded her hand that afternoon on the stockpot so badly that the doctor had been sent for. There were 11 courses to be got on the table for a duke and only two kitchen maids who could barely boil an egg. So, Grace had tied an apron over her morning dress and done it all herself: the turbot, the lamb, the jellies, and the soup. A thick, golden, spiced soup that she had learned to make in another country, in another life, and had not made in 2 years.Now, she sat alone at the end of the long scrubbed kitchen table with a small plate of the leftovers in front of her while the maids carried the silver dishes up the back stairs. Above her head, through the ceiling, she could hear the murmur of voices and the clink of glasses. She was not hungry. She sat with her hands in her lap and looked at the fire.Upstairs, in the dining room, the Duke of Aldridge took his first spoonful of soup.He was 33 years old, tall and dark with black curls and long sideburns, and a face that had been burned brown by a hotter sun than England's. He wore a black evening coat and a waistcoat of black and gold brocade, and he had said so far almost nothing at all. Lady Ashdown had seated him at her right hand with Lavinia at his other side and had been talking at him without stopping since the fish.He took one spoonful of the soup, then he set down his spoon. He sat motionless for a moment looking at the bowl."Lady Ashdown," he said quietly, "who made this soup?"Lady Ashdown smiled. "Our cook, Your Grace, Mrs. Dawlish. She's been with us for 20 years—a treasure.""Mrs. Dawlish has been to Madras?"The smile faltered slightly. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace?"