A Suitable Vengeance

St. James felt the terrible burden of her words and with it the need to reassure his sister of her intrinsic worth. He wanted to say something but couldn’t think of the words that might comfort her.

Lady Helen spoke. “What Justin Brooke was makes no statement about who you are, Sidney. You don’t take your definition of self from him. Or from what he felt. Or didn’t feel, for that matter.”

Sidney gave a choked sob. St. James went to her. “I’m sorry, love,” he said, putting his arm tightly round her. “I think I’d rather you hadn’t known. But I can’t lie to you, Sidney. I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

She coughed and looked up at him. She offered a shattered smile. “Lord, how hungry I am,” she whispered. “Shall we have lunch?”



In Eaton Terrace, Lady Helen slammed the door of her Mini. She did it more to give herself courage—as if the action might attest to the fittingness of her behaviour—than to assure herself that the car door was securely locked. She looked up at the darkened front of Lynley’s townhouse, then held up her wrist to the light of a streetlamp. It was nearly eleven, hardly the time for a social call. But the very unsuitability of the hour gave her an advantage which she wasn’t willing to relinquish. She climbed the marble-tiled steps to his door.

For the past two weeks, she had been trying to contact him. Every effort had received a rebuff. Out on a job, working a double shift, caught at a meeting, testifying in court. From a series of unquestionably polite secretaries, assistants, and junior officers, she had heard every permutation of a job-related excuse. The implicit message was always the same: He was unavailable, alone, and preferring it so.

It would not be so tonight. She rang the bell. It sounded somewhere in the back of the house, resonating oddly towards the front door as if the building were empty. For a fleeting, mad moment, she actually harboured the thought that he had moved from London—running away from everything once and for all—but then the fanlight above the door showed a sudden illumination in the lower hallway. A bolt was drawn, the door opened, and Lynley’s valet stood blinking owlishly out at her. He was wearing his bedroom slippers, Lady Helen noted, and a plaid flannel bathrobe over paisley pyjamas. Surprise and judgement played spontaneously across his face. He wiped them off quickly enough, but Lady Helen read their meaning. Well brought up daughters of peers were not supposed to go calling on gentlemen in the late of night, no matter which part of the twentieth century this was.

“Thank you, Denton,” Lady Helen said decisively. She stepped into the hall every bit as if he’d asked her in with earnest protestations of welcome. “Please tell Lord Asherton that I must see him at once.” She removed her light evening coat and placed it along with her bag on a chair in the foyer.

Still standing by the open door, Denton looked from her to the street as if trying to recall whether he had actually asked her in. He kept his hand on the doorknob and shifted from foot to foot, appearing caught between a need to protest the solecism of this visit and the fear of someone’s wrath should he do so.

“His lordship’s asked—”

“I know,” Lady Helen said. She felt a brief flicker of guilt to be bullying Denton, knowing that his determination to protect Lynley was motivated by a loyalty that spanned nearly a decade. “I understand. He’s asked not to be disturbed, not to be interrupted. He’s not returned one of my calls these last two weeks, Denton, so I quite understand he wishes not to be bothered. Now that the issue is clear between us, please tell him I wish to see him.”

“But—”

“I shall go directly up to his bedroom if I have to.”

Denton signalled his surrender by closing the door. “He’s in the library. I’ll fetch him for you.”

“No need. I know the way.”

She left Denton gaping in the hallway and went quickly up the stairs to the first floor of the house, down a thickly carpeted corridor, past an impressive collection of antique pewter, winked at by half a dozen Asherton ancestors long since dead. She heard Lynley’s valet not far behind her, murmuring, “My lady…Lady Helen…”

The library door was closed. She knocked once, heard Lynley’s voice, and entered.

He was sitting at his desk, his head resting in one hand and several folders spread out in front of him. Lady Helen’s first thought—with some considerable surprise as he looked up—was that she had no idea he’d begun wearing spectacles to read. He took them off as he got to his feet. He said nothing, merely glanced behind her to where Denton stood, looking monumentally apologetic.

“Sorry,” Denton said. “I tried.”