Grains of Truth by Lydia Crichton Read Free Book Online Page B

appointment. One of the city’s most respected and time-honored eateries, paneled in old mahogany and comfortable in understated elegance, the room perfectly reflected the grandeur of its one-hundred-and-fifty-year history. According to tradition, the tables were set with seasonal flowers, polished antique silver and sparkling crystal. Today, brilliant deep purple and pale yellow tulips stood out against crisp white linen cloths. One could easily imagine royalty seated among the distinguished guests, as they frequently were.
    Zeroing in on the man he sought, Alexander worked his way through the tables to one by the window. Leave it to James to commandeer the best spot in the room.
    “Good day to you, Mr. Marshall,” he said as the rotund, rosy-cheeked Englishman rose to grasp his hand.
    “Alex, my boy! Very good of you to come, and on such short notice, very good indeed.” Collapsing back in his chair, James added, “I say, you’re looking quite fit, and about time, too.”
    Alexander inwardly winced at the abbreviation of his name but, after all these years, he’d become resigned to it, more or less. He strategically chose a chair backed to the wall, which provided a full view of the other diners as well as the entrance. A force of habit, this placed him next to his companion rather than across, as he felt more at ease in having complete awareness of all that transpired around him. 
    “Well, I’ve somehow managed to stay at home for more than a few hours at a time. It’s a distinct pleasure to wake up in my own bed for a change. And how do the Marshalls fare these days?”
    “Excellent, excellent,” replied James as he signaled the waiter for menus. “Went abroad for all of August. Rented a lovely cottage in the south of France and had a proper holiday. First one in several years. Liz was over the moon. Had the damnedest time getting her to come back to what she calls ‘the daily grind.’ Doesn’t seem to realize she’s living the Life of Riley.”  
    Alexander had to agree. The Marshalls resided on an ancestral estate: a grand thirty-room Georgian manor on over a hundred acres of magnificent country gardens in the heart of Gloucestershire, the entirety tended, as expected, by an army of staff. Picturing life there “a daily grind” certainly did challenge the imagination.
    “Let’s order straight away, shall we? Then we can talk.” James took the red leather folder embossed in gold bearing the tempting offers of the day.
    Angela Hartnett’s Menu, as the dining salon was now called after its illustrious chef, was known far and wide as one of London’s finest eating establishments. James took his culinary experiences seriously, as his ever-expanding waistline testified, and was always more than happy to play host in their pursuit—especially when he sought something in return. 
    Alexander watched with amusement as the gourmand queried the waiter on several points and then, after the food had been meticulously selected, spent a considerable amount of time in choosing the proper libations to complement it. He faithfully adhered to the custom of his countrymen in enjoying abundant spirits with the midday repast.
    This presented a challenge for Alexander. Of course he wanted to appear an appreciative guest but found that downing large quantities of alcohol in the middle of the day could be problematic. Once, after an especially overindulgent episode, he had “fallen asleep” on the train home and awakened several stops past his own. He now practiced strict control over his consumption during daylight hours. 
    “Fine, now then,” said James with satisfaction while rubbing well-padded hands in anticipation, “how’s business these days?”
    One of James’s more likeable qualities, as far as Alexander was concerned, was his habit of getting right down to the issue at hand. Here in “jolly olde” England, it usually took several meetings for the crux of the matter to even be introduced. He still