“Yes,” said Penny demurely.“Your aunt introduced us a moment ago.I’ve been here all evening.”
“I don’t mean that,” he snarled.
Nigel was back, looking in confusion between Penny and his cousin.
The cousin didn’t take his eyes off Penny.She had the idea that if she moved, it would be more than hiseyeson her—and not in a friendly way.
“You’re one ofthosewomen,“ he said, splashing punch from his cup.“You go to protests—smash windows.I’ve seen you!Why are you here?Are you a spy?”
“See here, Gordon, this isn’t—“ Nigel objected, holding him back.
Well, there was nothing for it now but to make a spectacle of herself.
“He’s quite right,” Penny said, with a little sob.The whole circle went quiet.“Iamone of those women.Or I was.Oh!I oughtn’t to have come!Only, you were all so kind to me…I thought, for a moment—“ She raised a handkerchief to her eyes.“I’m so lonely, you see, and I don’t know what to do with myself.I thought I might turn over a new leaf.Oh!How silly I was!”
And she hid her face and threaded her way through the crowd and out the door, thinking what a good thing it was that she’d done so many Shakespeare monologues.Granted, her soliloquy just now hadn’t been quite at the level of the Bard himself, but then she’d had to make it up on the spot.
She could hear footsteps behind her all the way, but she did not allow them to catch her up until she was on the street.
It would not do to make it too easy for him.She was a stag, not a rabbit.
A hand touched her sleeve.
“Miss Fairweather, one moment—“
She whirled about, preparing a look of astonishment.
It turned genuine, for the person who had followed her was not safe Nigel, but the marginal little man who had been watching her from a distance.To her surprise, he spoke with a faultless Oxbridge accent, and carried himself with a feline grace.
“Were you sincere back there, Miss Fairweather?”
Penny took a step back, blotting at her eyes with her hankie.Had this odd man seen through her charade?“Sincere?Do I know you, sir?”
“Yes, quite.I do apologise for approaching you thus, when we haven’t been introduced.But I couldn’t help hearing your admirable speech back there.I was rather touched by it.I wonder—have you heard of Athelney?”
Penny was glad the handkerchief was in front of her face.
“You mean…the place where King Alfred hid when the heathen tried to murder him?”she asked innocently.
The man’s eyes lit.
“Precisely.”He took out his card.“May I call on you?With my wife?No one who wishes to turn over a new leaf, as you put it, should have to do it alone.”
Penny looked at the man and sniffed.“But of course.Only” —and she bit her lip— “my parents.It would be hard to talk openly.They see the world as they want it to be.”
“Then call on me,” he said, placing the card in her hand and wrapping her gloved fingers round it in a way that made Penny feel as if a wasp were crawling up her corset.And as his odd mouth twisted in an asymmetrical smile, Penny realised he smelled of civet.
“I’m in London at the moment, but my wife and I would be most happy to see you at our little refuge in the country.There, we can show you the world as it truly is.”His voice was reedy, sing-song.She hated to admit there was something almost interesting about him, in a repellent sort of way.He stepped back with a slight bow that implied value.“Good evening, Miss Fairweather.”
When she was alone on the rain-washed pavement, glinting with lamplight, she looked at the card.
Although she hardly needed to look at it, for she could feel the primitive shape of the embossed symbol even through her gloves.
The Cross of Saint George.
“Athelney, here I come,” Penny whispered.
The hunt was on.
