In the Lion's Den

Rescue Commando

I turned to Lady Beatrice, surprised at what she just said.

Did her wanting to deal with Mr. Sinclair imply that...

"You will help us?"

She nodded, half-smiling at me.

"What else should I do, throw you two to the lions? I will help you, of course, but I will talk to the boy before he leaves and make sure he writes that letter to Marianne as well."

"He's not a boy, Lady Beatrice, he is a man of three and thirty."

"Ah, yes, I forgot, taking up Sinclair on his bad habits, am I? Well, from my age and perspective, everyone below 50 is a youngster in some way... now, let's forget that and go to the lion's den to rescue your Simon."

I blushed a little, but resisted the temptation to point out that he was not my Simon.

She would have understood it as a confession.

It was a confession.

We made our way back to the motorcar where Wilson was waiting, engrossed in a newspaper.

"Take us back post-haste, and then see to it that Miss Crawford's luggage is taken to her room discreetly", Lady Beatrice commanded.

She didn't say a word on the remaining drive, which was quite uncharacteristic of her, but from time to time she smiled as if she had a particularly good idea, then frowned, then smiled again.

Dinner was a surprisingly pleasant affair this evening.

This time, Marianne had feigned a headache in order not to have to go through the ordeal, and I felt a pang of guilt.

I had neglected my promises to help her with her walking.

I had kept my findings a secret from her.

I was about to take away her fiancé.

But that was soon muffled by the excitement about what was to come.

Or was it anxiety?

The two felt rather similar, and certainly there was still so much that could go wrong, even though I had an ally now.

And an ally she was.

It was clear to me that the change of atmosphere on the dining table was all her working.

She had pleasant words for the food, for MacArthur - I still had difficulty judging the man, having rarely seen him in the last few days - and yes, she even had pleasant words for Sinclair.

And there was only the slightest hint of irony in them, which the two men obviously didn't care to pick up on.

I watched the exchange, astonished.

"My dear Marcus, do you remember the beautiful balls and house parties we had here in our youth, when all of this still belonged to the Duke?"

Sinclair's face had shown little interest when she had started speaking, but now it was turned on her intently.

"Well, he might still be the owner had he thrown less of those lavish parties..."

"Marcus Sinclair, you are a spoilsport. Do you really want to blame the decline of the aristocracy on a little bit of glitter and pomp?"

"All I know is that I am now the owner of this house and its estates, while he is barely keeping up his London townhouse."

"Yes, you're right of course. It was great fun, though, and I can't imagine you didn't enjoy yourself at least a little."