Gregor stalked up to us. “Por-Mrs. Mann, we have to leave if you want to be ready to meet Mr. Sebring and Mr. Rivenhall for dinner.” He glared at Mark.
“Novotny, your face is going to freeze in that expression. I have to get going also. Enjoy your dinner, ma’am.”
“Thank you. But Mark?”
“Ma’am?”
“Please stop calling me ‘ma’am.’”
He grinned at me, touched a forefinger to his temple in a brief salute, and left.
“Portia!” Gregor hissed.
“I was quite safe, Gregor. You were within earshot the entire time.”
“Yeah, but…Never mind. We have to go.”
* * * *
June ended, and now it was the middle of July. “We’re running a little low on wine, Portia.” Gregor emerged from our wine cellar, brushing down the apron he wore.