Whitfield's conservatory made trouble look civilized. Rain sleeked the glass to a dull shine; white lilies held their throats like good witnesses. Camilla chose this room for a reason. No echo, no staff lingering, every word absorbed by green. It was the perfect camouflage.
Madeline Vale arrived five minutes past the hour. A dark coat, a neat smile, gloves folded once. She offered Camilla the European kiss that never found skin and sat as though the invitation were a ceremony rather than permission.
"Tea," Camilla said, not asking.
"You keep the water hotter than the hotels," Maddie answered, the old compliment dressed as observation. "It makes the leaves honest."
They poured. Steam rose; nothing else did.
"I assume you've seen the tabloids, what do you think abut Julian's marriage to his current wife?" Impatient, she continued, without waiting for the other woman to respond.
"Let's cut to the chase." Camilla did not want to waste any time.
