As Graham spoke, the footman who had helped his brother to the terrace moments ago backed discreetly into the house. Graham lifted the silver coffeepot and filled Freddy’s cup with the steaming brew made extra strong according to his orders. Movement inside his coat pocket—fitted with a stiff, starched linen sleeve to prevent it collapsing—signaled Isis’s awakening from her midday slumber. Graham set the pot down and carefully slipped his hand into his pocket. Once his Egyptian-born pet made her way onto his wrist, he extended his arm to the streaming sunshine. She rose up on eight bristling legs, basking in the heat. “I dread to think what iniquities you might have committed last night, little brother,” he said. “You didn’t get married or anything to that effect, did you?” Sitting opposite, Shaun snickered at the suggestion. Freddy slouched with elbows propped on the table, head anchored in splayed fingers. Suddenly, from that miserable huddle, a yelp emerged. “Good God, Graham, don’t move.”
