He was still in riding clothes, having just come in from a brisk, early morning canter over the grounds of his country estate, not far from Edinburgh. Sunlight was pouring into the little parlor always called the “honey-bee room,” because of the pale gold pattern of bees and flowers on the wallpaper, so he shrugged but of his hacking jacket and tossed it over the back of a nearby settee before pulling out the chair set before the little table in the wide window bay. On the table, centered on a snowy tablecloth of fine Irish linen, a crystal vase of cut chrysanthemums reigned over a single place setting of antique silver and fine delft breakfast china. On top of his leather-bound appointment book, the morning edition of The Scotsman lay neatly folded in its customary place to the right of the china and cutlery. Adam unfolded it with a sharp flick of the wrist and scanned the main headlines as he sat down, absently loosening the knot of his tie. Nothing of major interest had happened over the weekend.
