Belinda looked up from the pastry tray. She had been about to try one of the most marvelous looking cream puffs, when the mention of Adam Sturridge left a sour taste in her mouth. Too bad, as Georgie’s cook – who she’d brought down with them from London – had produced the most delicious looking array of treats Belinda had ever laid eyes on. “Madame Florian, didn’t he come down to the kitchens?” Georgie asked the stout woman who had come up with the tray of treats. “I sent him down to you.” “Non – we’ve seen no young gentleman, Mademoiselle,” Madame Florian replied in a thick French accent. Then she went pale and her eyes widened. “I hope the ghost did not abduct him.” Francesca gasped, but Belinda rolled her eyes. Everyone knew the old stories about the ghost of a monk who haunted the Friar’s House halls, but all the ghost had ever done was keep the less strong-minded from renting the property.
