A Suitable Vengeance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,77

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. 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 hah*.

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