Aunt Dimity and the Duke by Nancy Atherton

Susannah.
    Shadows danced across the molded ceiling, and the table was a fairyland of twinkling crystal and gleaming silver. Quite a lot of silver, Emma noted. Aware of Susannah’s coolly amused gaze on her worried face, Emma resolved to follow the duke’s lead and hope for the best.
    “Speaking of higher powers, Susannah,” the duke was saying, “I’m almost willing to believe in one, now that Emma’s here. She’s an answer to my prayers, sent by a pair of angels in human form, who—Ah, Madama, what culinary magic have you worked for us tonight?”
    A door had opened in the wall behind Emma, admitting a tiny old woman in a plain black dress, followed by Crowley, bearing a silver soup tureen, and Hallard, carrying a ladle. The old woman led the two manservants to the sideboard, where she carefully filled a soup bowl, then stood back. Hallard placed the bowl on a silver tray, and Crowley presented it to the duke. “Wild mushroom, Your Grace, with a touch of port wine.”
    The duke tasted the soup, then bowed his head. “Perfection,” he declared.
    The old woman’s wrinkled face was instantly wreathed in smiles, and she departed the room in triumph, leaving Hallard and Crowley to serve the duke’s guests.
    “She does it every night,” Susannah commented to Emma. “I find it positively medieval.” She turned her gaze to the foot of the table. “But, then, so much about Penford Hall has a feudal air. It must be a special treat for you to dine with your betters, Kate.”
    Emma flinched, but Kate Cole merely nodded complacently.
    “It is,” Kate agreed. “I feel quite privileged whenever the Reverend and Mrs. Shuttleworth invite me to dine with them at the rectory in Penford Harbor. Mrs. Shuttleworth sets a shining example for us all.”
    Outmaneuvered, Susannah subsided.
    “Now, where was I?” said the duke. “Ah, yes, my guardian angels. You would adore them, Derek. They live in a tiny Cotswolds village called Finch and they’re the most incredibly identical—”
    “You don’t mean Ruth and Louise Pym by any chance, do you?” Derek interrupted.
    “Derek, you astound me,” said the duke. “Don’t tell me you know them.”
    “I do, as a matter of fact. Worked on the church in Finch last winter, uncovering some whitewashed frescoes. Twelfth-century. Interesting.” Favoring Emma with a brief glance, he asked politely, “How are the ladies?”
    Candlelight glittered in sapphire eyes, and Emma’s soup spoon slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly on the leg of her chair as it made its way to the carpet. She started to retrieve it, but the duke put out a restraining hand to keep her from knocking heads with Hallard, who was already bending to remove the offending utensil, while Crowley replaced it with a clean one, which Emma promptly swept from the table with her elbow.
    Hallard and Crowley went into action again, Susannah tittered, and Emma blushed a shade of pink that made her grateful for the dim lighting. The duke came to her rescue, signaling Crowley to serve the next course, and continuing as if there’d been no interruption.
    “But how else would they be, dear boy? There are few things in this world one can rely upon absolutely, and the Pym sisters—and I say this advisedly—are one of them.”
    “Tell them how you met,” said Kate.
    The duke obliged. “Front right tire went pop directly in front of their cottage. The road turned and I didn’t. Came to a rest atop their birdbath, if memory serves. They were perfectly charming, of course. Took me in, fed me soup, gave me a kitten to play with—like being back in the nursery with Nanny Cole. Been thick as thieves ever since. Never go to London without looking in on them.”
    “And you, Miss Porter?” Derek asked.
    “A m-maze,” Emma stammered, still shaken by her mishap with the spoon.
    “Know what you mean,” agreed the duke, helping himself to the marbled salmon and sole Hallard offered from a silver serving dish. “But