A Suitable Vengeance

her time to the right, the other to the left, and throwing a remark right down the centre whenever she deemed it appropriate. 'It's bad enough that Wheal Maen must be closed. But cows were actually grazing in the park when I arrived! Good heavens, I couldn't believe my eyes. My father must be spinning in his grave. I don't understand the reason, Mr Penellin.'

Penellin looked up from his wineglass. 'The mine's too close to the road. The main shaft's flooded. It's safer to seal it.'

'Piffle!' Lady Augusta proclaimed. 'Those mines are individual works of art. You know as well as I that at least two of our mines have beam-engines that are perfectly intact. People want to see that sort of thing, you know. People pay to see it.'

'Guided tours, Aunt?' Lynley asked.

'Just the thing!'

'With everyone wearing those wonderful Cyclops hats with little torches attached to their foreheads,' Lady Helen said.

'Yes, of course.' Lady Augusta rapped the table sharply with her fork. 'We don't want the Trust here, sniffing round for another Lanhydrock, putting everyone out of house and home, do we? Do we?' She gave a quick nod, accepting no response as agreement. 'Quite. We don't. But what other way do we have of avoiding those little beasts than by dealing with the tourist trade ourselves, my dears? We must make repairs, we must open the mines, we must allow tours. Children love tours. They'll be wild to go down. They'll give their parents no peace until they've had a look.'

'It's an interesting idea,' Lynley said. 'But I'll only consider it on one condition.'

'What's that, Tommy dear?'

'That you run the tea shop.' 'That I…' Her mouth closed abrupdy. 'In a white cap,' Lynley went on. 'Dressed as a milkmaid.'

Lady Augusta pressed against the back of her chair and laughed with the heartiness of a woman who knew she'd been bested, if only for the moment. 'You naughty boy,' she said and dipped into her soup.

Conversation ebbed and flowed through the remainder of the meal. St James caught only snatches here and there. Lady Asherton and Cotter talking about a large brass charger, caparisoned and prancing, that hung on the room's east wall; Lady Helen relating to Dr Trenarrow an amusing tale of mistaken identity at a long-ago house- party attended by her father; Justin Brooke and Sidney laughing together over a remark Lady Augusta made about Lynley's childhood; the Plymouth MP and Mrs Sweeney wandering in a maze of confusion in which he discussed the need for economic development and she responded with a dreamy reverie about bringing the film industry to Cornwall apparently in order to feature herself in a starring role; Mr Sweeney – when his eyes were not feasting upon his spouse – murmuring vague responses to the MP's wife who was speaking about each of her grandchildren in turn. Only Peter and Sasha kept their voices low, their heads together, their attention on each other.

Thus the company moved smoothly towards the end of the meal. This was heralded by the presentation of the pudding, a flaming concoction that looked as if its intended purpose was to conclude the dinner by means of a conflagration. When it had been duly served and devoured, Lynley got to his feet. He brushed back his hair in a boyish gesture.

'You know this already,' he said. 'But I'd like to make it official tonight by saying that Deborah and I shall marry in December.' He touched her bright hair lighdy as a murmur of congratulations rose and fell. 'What you don't know, however, because we only decided late this afternoon, is that we'll be coming home permanently to Cornwall then. To make our life here – have our children grow up here – with you.'

It was an announcement which, considering the reaction, no-one had been prepared to hear. Least of all had St James expected it. He had an impression only of a general cry of surprise and then a series of images played quickly before him: Lady Asherton saying her son's name and nothing more; Trenarrow turning abruptly to Lynley's mother; Deborah pressing her cheek to Lynley's hand in a movement so quick it might have gone unnoticed; and then Cotter studying St James with an expression whose meaning was unmistakable. He's expected this all along, St James thought.

There was no time to dwell upon what it would mean -how it would feel – to have Deborah nearly three hundred miles away from the home she'd known all her life. For champagne glasses had been distributed, and Mr Sweeney was enthusiastically seizing the moment. He got to his feet, eager to be the first to embrace such welcome news. Only the Second Coming could have given him more pleasure.

'Then, I must say…' Clumsily he reached for his glass. 'Do let me toast you both. To have you with us again, to have you home, to have you…'He relinquished the attempt to find an appropriate sentiment and merely raised his glass and burbled, 'Simply wonderful,' before he sat down.

Other congratulations followed, and with them were voiced the inevitable questions about engagement and wedding and future life. The meal could have disintegrated at that point into one large display of bonhomie, but Peter Lynley put an end to the promise of that happening.

He stood, holding his champagne glass at arm's length towards his brother. He waved it unevenly. Only the shape of the glass prevented the wine from sloshing out. 'Then, a toast,' he said, drawing out the last word. He leaned one hand on Sasha's shoulder for support. She glanced furtively at Lynley and then said something in a low voice which Peter disregarded. 'To the perfect brother,' he announced. 'Who has managed somehow after searching the world over – not to mention doing a fair degree of sampling the goods as he went. Right, Tommy? – to find the perfect woman with whom he can now have the perfect life. What a damned lucky fellow Lord Asherton is.' He gulped his drink noisily and fell back into his chair.

That cuts it, St James thought. He looked to see how Lynley would handle the matter, but his eyes came to rest upon Deborah instead. Face pinched, she ducked her head. No matter that her humiliation was both unwarranted and unnecessary considering its source, the fact of it alone provided a spur. St James pushed his own chair back and rose awkwardly.

'The issue of perfection is always open to debate,' he said. 'I'm not eloquent enough to argue it here. I drink instead to Tommy – oldest of my friends – and to Deborah – dearest companion of my exile. My own life has been richer indeed for having had both of you part of it.'

A swell of general approbation followed his words, on the heel 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 et ceteras 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 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.'