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His mother

‘That’s what?’ She looked puzzled.

‘Feminine solidarity. You have me well and truly figured for the villain of the piece despite your wide and classical education.’

Irene was forced to wait as the housekeeper appeared to clear their dishes and bring a fruit bowl together with the coffee and some hot biscuits.

As she waited she reflected that it was not a judgement she would make, that he was the villain of the piece—she was fairly sure there were two sides to the story, and feminine solidarity was not something she indulged in mindlessly. But it also occurred to her that to have him think this might provide her with some camouflage…

She couldn’t quite bring herself to say it, though, so as she plucked a bloomy purple grape from the fruit bowl she simply shrugged.

‘So be it,’ he murmured, and raked his hand through his hair in a gesture of savage impatience.

For some reason Irene felt a smile tremble on her lips. ‘I don’t see anything amusing,’ he remarked cuttingly.

‘No. It’s just—’ s
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