They came up on the rear of the house, threading their way through an elaborate English-style garden with a maze of box hedges. They crossed a broad brick patio to a set of French doors, which the gardener pulled open, gesturing for Cass to go inside. She hesitated, watching him kneel down to unlace and kick off his boots before entering the house himself.

Once inside he crossed rapidly to a wall phone and picked it up, not bothering to dial. A few moments later he said, “Mark? I’m in the morning room. Would you ask Emilie to meet me here? I’ve brought her an unexpected guest.”

The morning room. That was a good name for it. It would be even more impressive in the early hours of the day than it was now in late afternoon. Huge windows and glass doors allowed the sunlight to bathe every corner. Beautiful healthy-looking plants flaunted their rainbow hues everywhere—tall ones standing in pots on the floor, smaller ones resting on tables or hanging in baskets from overhead hooks. White wicker furniture accented with overstuffed cushions in a green and yellow floral pattern completed the motif. Cass could have believed she was standing in a furnished greenhouse, except the air was deliciously cool.

The gardener hung up the phone and flopped into one of the flowered chairs. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said.

Comfort was an impossibility at that moment, despite the cultivated charm of the room. Cass was too worried about her impending interview with Mrs. Crosswhite. She tried to mentally compose herself, but found herself distracted by questions about the man who had brought her this far in her quest to rescue Crudley. He’d twice referred to Mrs Crosswhite as “Emilie.” The first time, Cass had dismissed it, assuming he was being flippant about his employer in the way many employees are when the boss is out of earshot. Now she was forced to consider whether she had completely mistaken this man’s function at Crosswhite Manor and his relationship with its owner.

He seemed perfectly at ease inside the residence. He’d let himself in without a second’s thought, removing his boots first with what might be interpreted as proprietary care. He knew where the house phone was and used it to issue a rather peremptory summons for Mrs. Crosswhite. Now he lounged casually in a chair, awaiting the great lady’s arrival while encouraging Cass to make herself comfortable, too, as though he had every right to bring anyone into this house on any terms he chose. Who was he?

Cass licked her lips nervously. At this point he was her only ally. She’d tried lying to him, ordering him around and finally bribing him to worm her way inside the gate. He’d laughed all that off and helped her, anyway. Would he have let her in the gate if she hadn’t taken up his ridiculous challenge to scale the fence? She had no clue. It made her uneasy, though, having to worry about his motives and his pull with the woman whose help she’d come to request.

Cass pulled on the jacket to her suit and smoothed it as best she could, then ran her fingers through her wildly disarrayed hair trying to restore it to some semblance of neatness. She perched carefully on the edge of a chair and flicked a quick look at her guide. He was watching her with continuing frank amusement. She suppressed her irritation and forced herself to meet his laughing eyes. “Thank you for helping me,” she said.

He shrugged. “We had a deal. Maybe you’d better tell me your name, though. It will make the introductions easier when Emilie arrives.”

“Cass Appleton.”

“Gabe Preston. Nice to meet you.”

She nodded, then they lapsed into silence for several minutes.

The door opened abruptly. A tiny white-haired woman floated in wearing a long silvery gown that made her look like an earthbound cherub. She turned immediately to the gardener, who’d risen automatically at the sound of her arrival. “Gabriel, darling,” she said, lifting her smooth powdered cheek for a kiss.

“Hi, Emilie.” He gave her a hug along with the kiss.

The woman turned quickly to Cass, who also stood automatically. “And you’ve brought a guest. How wonderful.” She drifted forward as though she were walking on a cloud, her hand outstretched to grasp Cass’s. “It’s so lovely to meet one of Gabriel’s friends.”

“She’s here to see you, Emilie,” Gabe explained. “I just happened to meet her on the grounds, so I showed her the way to the house. Emilie, this is Cass Appleton. Cass, Emilie Crosswhite.”

“You’re here to see me?” Emilie Crosswhite repeated, turning to Gabe while clinging to Cass’s hand. “I thought I didn’t have any appointments this afternoon.”

“I don’t have an appointment, Mrs. Crosswhite,” Cass confessed, releasing the tiny cool hand that had gripped hers with unexpected firmness. “I didn’t have time to make one. I’m here because of an emergency.”

“An emergency!” Mrs. Crosswhite’s clear blue eyes dimmed with concern. Her classically arched eyebrows drew together as she frowned. “Sit down, my dear. Gabriel, ring for tea, won’t you please?” She led Cass to a sofa and sat, patting the cushion next to her. “Tell me all about it.”

Cass sat and her eyes flicked toward Gabe, who was speaking on the house phone. “It’s rather personal,” she said softly.

Mrs. Crosswhite followed the direction of her glance. “You mustn’t worry about Gabriel. my dear. He’s my godson and my most trusted friend. I have no secrets from him.” She laughed gaily, like a girl. “Except my age of course. No one knows that but me, and I’m afraid I’ve quite forgotten it.”

Gabriel had hung up the phone and stood propped against a high-backed chair, his forearms resting lightly on the wicker. His sea green eyes were alert and watchful, belying the casual pose.

Cass took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I know where to begin.”

Emilie Crosswhite patted her hand. “Just take your time, dear, and do the best you can. Gabriel will explain it to me if I don’t understand at first.”

That wasn’t a reassuring thought. Cass turned so she wouldn’t have to see Gabe’s face when she told Mrs. Crosswhite the reason for her visit. “Someone has kidnapped my cat,” she said.

“Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Crosswhite exclaimed, genuine distress clear on her face. “How awful for you.”

Cass ignored the choking snorting sounds coming from Gabe Preston’s direction and concentrated on capitalizing on Mrs. Crosswhite’s sympathy. “They didn’t mean to take my cat. They meant to take your cat, Princess Athabasca.”

“My cat?” Emilie Crosswhite looked confused. She shot a quick look at Gabe, searching for a clue to Cass’s mysterious statement. Apparently he was no help. She focused on Cass again. “I don’t understand, dear.”

“There was a burglary at Dr. Bellingham’s clinic last night,” Cass explained. “Whoever broke in took my cat and left a note. The note said the kidnappers would be calling you tonight to give you instructions on when and where to leave the ransom money. They think they stole Princess Athabasca, but they made a mistake and took the wrong cat. My cat.”

“That is the most ridiculous—” Gabe began.

Emilie Crosswhite brought him up short with a stern look, then addressed Cass. “What does your cat look like, dear?”

“He’s a big gray tom with gold eyes. Bobby, one of the kennel boys who works for Dr. Bellingham, says there’s a strong superficial resemblance between Crudley and the Princess.”

“Crudley?” Gabe echoed in disbelief. Cass nodded without looking at him. For the first time she wished she’d given her cat a more impressive name.

Emilie, however, seemed quite taken with the name. “That would be,” she ventured, “C-r-u-d-l-e-i-g-h? He is French, isn’t he?”

The unmistakable twinkle in Emilie Crosswhite’s eyes filled Cass with renewed hope. She smiled and shook her head in answer. “No, he’s American. It’s just plain l-e-y.”

“How refreshing! And what a relief, really. The French can be so fiercely independent one hesitates to offer help. A French cat, no matter how desperate his straits, might very well try to bite the hand that rescued him. I speak with some authority. We had a French poodle once—”