A Suitable Vengeance

Lady Augusta waved that off like a fly. “You won’t let that get in the way of the children.”


Dr. Trenarrow, passing by, came to Deborah’s rescue. “Times have changed, Augusta. We no longer live in an age where merit is determined by one’s ability to reproduce. And thank God for that. Think of the limitless possibilities presented in eschewing procreation. No more thinning of familial gene pools. A future without bleeders. No Saint Vitus’ dance.”

“Oh, rubbish, you scientists,” was Lady Augusta’s riposte, but she was abashed enough to seek other conversational prey and headed in the direction of John Penellin, who was standing at the doorway to the Elizabethan gallery, brandy in hand.

St. James watched her close in on the estate manager, her fluttering scarf and ample posterior making her resemble nothing so much as the stern of a ship under sail. He heard her call out, “Those mines, Mr. Penellin,” before he turned away to find that Deborah had come to join him.

“Please don’t get up.” She sat beside him. She was taking neither coffee nor liqueur.

“You’ve survived.” He smiled. “Even with the silver. Not a single mistake, as far as I could tell.”

“Everyone’s been more than kind,” she said. “Well, nearly everyone. Peter was…” She looked round the room as if in search of Lynley’s brother, and she sighed, perhaps feeling relief that he and Sasha had left the party altogether. “Did I look petrified when I first came downstairs? I must have. Everyone was treating me like porcelain before dinner.”

“Not at all.” St. James reached for his coffee, but merely turned the cup aimlessly in its saucer. He wondered why Deborah had joined him like this. Her place was with Lynley who, along with Justin Brooke and Sidney, was steeped in conversation with the Plymouth MP. He heard their laughter, heard Brooke say, “Too right,” heard one of them comment on the Labour Party. Sidney said something about the Prime Minister’s hair. There was another burst of laughter.

Next to him, Deborah stirred, but didn’t speak. It was unlikely that she had joined him for the sake of companionship or a quick postmortem of the evening’s events. Yet this reticence was out of character as well. He looked up from his contemplation of her engagement ring—a heavy emerald set off with diamonds—and found her studying him with an intensity that brought the heat to his face. This sudden loss of his habitual detachment was as disconcerting as was her unnatural diffidence. We’re a fine pair, he thought.

“Why did you call me that, Simon? In the dining room.”

So much for diffidence. “It seemed the right thing. After all, it’s the truth. You were there through everything, both you and your father.”

“I see.” Her hand lay next to his. He had noticed this before but had chosen to ignore it, making a deliberate effort not to move away from her like a man afraid of the potential for contact. His fingers were relaxed. He willed them to be so. And although a single movement, wearing the guise of inadvertence, would have been sufficient to cover her hand with his own, he took care to maintain between them an appropriately discreet and utterly hypocritical four inches of beautifully upholstered Hepplewhite.

The gesture, when it came, was hers. She touched his hand lightly, an innocent contact that broke through his barriers. The movement meant nothing, it promised even less. He knew that quite well. But despite this, his fingers caught hers and held.

“I do want to know why you said it,” she repeated.

There was no point. It could only lead nowhere. Or worse, it could lead to an unbridled bout of suffering he’d prefer not to face.

“Simon—”

“How can I answer you? What can I possibly say that won’t make us both miserable and end up leading to another row? I don’t want that. And I can’t think you do.”

He told himself that he would adhere to every resolution he had made regarding Deborah. She was committed, he thought. Love and honour bound her to another. He would have to take solace in the fact that, in time, they might once again be the friends they had been in the past, taking pleasure in each other’s company and wanting nothing more. A dozen different lies rose in his mind about what was right and possible in their situation, about duty, responsibility, commitment, and love, about the anchors of ethics and morals that held each of them fast. And still he wanted to speak, because the reality was that anything—even anger and the risk of estrangement—was better than the void.

A sudden commotion at the drawing room door precluded the possibility of further conversation. Hodge was speaking urgently to Lady Asherton while Nancy Cambrey pulled upon his arm as if she would drag him back into the corridor. Lynley went to join them. St. James did likewise. In the hush that descended upon the company, Nancy’s voice rose.

“You can’t. Not now.”

“What is it?” Lynley asked.