’ ‘You mean the bookroom, miss. ‘I think,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that it would be as well if you, Hilary, were to go and fetch the troops. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. It was in this state that Mark McCloskey caught her. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter.
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