Joachim set about tidying up the plates and glasses for the housekeeper, who’d arrive the following morning, and encouraged the Graham siblings to get the last few dances out of their system in the salon. He carried an over-heavy armful of crockery backward through the swinging door to the kitchen and nearly dropped the entire load when he caught sight of an unfamiliar blonde man draped over the old oak kitchen table. The chap gave a rude hand-gesture. “För i helvete. Du lämnar.” “I beg your pardon,” said Joachim, bluff and friendly, pretending as though he hadn’t nearly had a heart attack. “I didn’t know any guests were still here.” He lowered the stack of dishes into the sink without incident and wiped his hands on a tea towel before turning back around. But there was no one there, nor was the door to the kitchen still swinging. Peculiar. There was no time to be concerned because a howl of indignation came from the living room came such that Joachim would have run to see what was the matter—if his ankle was willing to be run on. An old battlefield injury precluded that, but Joachim was still quicker than most—even…
