A Suitable Vengeance

“You know this already,” he said. “But I’d like to make it official tonight by saying that Deborah and I shall marry in December.” He touched her bright hair lightly as a murmur of congratulations rose and fell. “What you don’t know, however, because we only decided late this afternoon, is that we’ll be coming home permanently to Cornwall then. To make our life here—have our children grow up here—with you.”


It was an announcement which, considering the reaction, no one had been prepared to hear. Least of all had St. James expected it. He had an impression only of a general cry of surprise and then a series of images played quickly before him: Lady Asherton saying her son’s name and nothing more; Trenarrow turning abruptly to Lynley’s mother; Deborah pressing her cheek to Lynley’s hand in a movement so quick it might have gone unnoticed; and then Cotter studying St. James with an expression whose meaning was unmistakable. He’s expected this all along, St. James thought.

There was no time to dwell upon what it would mean—how it would feel—to have Deborah nearly three hundred miles away from the home she’d known all her life. For champagne glasses had been distributed, and Mr. Sweeney was enthusiastically seizing the moment. He got to his feet, eager to be the first to embrace such welcome news. Only the Second Coming could have given him more pleasure.

“Then I must say…” Clumsily, he reached for his glass. “Do let me toast you both. To have you with us again, to have you home, to have you…” He relinquished the attempt to find an appropriate sentiment and merely raised his glass and burbled, “Simply wonderful,” before he sat down.

Other congratulations followed, and with them were voiced the inevitable questions about engagement and wedding and future life. The meal could have disintegrated at that point into one large display of bonhomie, but Peter Lynley put an end to the promise of that happening.

He stood, holding his champagne glass at arm’s length towards his brother. He waved it unevenly. Only the shape of the glass prevented the wine from sloshing out. “Then a toast,” he said, drawing out the last word. He leaned one hand on Sasha’s shoulder for support. She glanced furtively at Lynley and then said something in a low voice which Peter disregarded. “To the perfect brother,” he announced. “Who has managed somehow after searching the world over—not to mention doing a fair degree of sampling the goods as he went. Right, Tommy?—to find the perfect woman with whom he can now have the perfect life. What a damned lucky fellow Lord Asherton is.” He gulped his drink noisily and fell back into his chair.

That cuts it, St. James thought. He looked to see how Lynley would handle the matter, but his eyes came to rest upon Deborah instead. Face pinched, she ducked her head. No matter that her humiliation was both unwarranted and unnecessary considering its source, the fact of it alone provided a spur. St. James pushed his own chair back and rose awkwardly.

“The issue of perfection is always open to debate,” he said. “I’m not eloquent enough to argue it here. I drink instead to Tommy—oldest of my friends—and to Deborah—dearest companion of my exile. My own life has been richer indeed for having had both of you part of it.”

A swell of general approbation followed his words, on the heels of which the Plymouth MP lifted his glass and managed to turn his own toast into a speech cataloguing his accomplishments and his steadfast, if highly unlikely, belief in the reincarnation of the Cornish mining industry, a topic upon which Lady Augusta waxed wildly enthusiastic for several more minutes. At the end of this time, it seemed clear that whatever damage Peter Lynley had attempted to do, the company seemed intent upon ignoring him altogether, a determination fortified by Lady Asherton, who announced with a resolute air of good cheer that coffee, port, and all the postprandial etceteras would be in the drawing room.

Unlike the dining room with its silver candelabra and unobtrusive wall sconces, the drawing room was brightly lit by its two chandeliers. Here, a serving table had been laid with a coffee service and another with brandy, balloon glasses, liqueurs. With his own coffee in hand, St. James made his way to a Hepplewhite settee which was centrally located in the room. He sat and placed his coffee on the side table. He didn’t really want it, couldn’t think why he had taken one in the first place.

“My dear”—Lady Augusta had buttonholed Deborah by the grand piano—“I want to hear about every change you’ve got planned for Howenstow.”

“Change?” Deborah asked her blankly.

“The nurseries need to be updated like mad. You’ll know that already.”

“Actually, I haven’t had a chance to think much about it.”

“I know you have this charming little hobby of photography—Daze told me all about it last week—but I’m glad to say you don’t look at all the type of a woman who’s going to put off having children in favour of a career.” As if seeking affirmation for her statement, she stepped back and looked Deborah over, like a breeder assessing the potential of a mare.

“I’m a professional photographer,” Deborah told her, stressing the adjective politely.