Miss Perdita Browning was standing in front of the Italian marble overmantel in the library, hand in hand with Rupert as Campion came towards them, the young man’s red hair bringing more warmth to the room than the oil stove which sulked ineffectively in the fireplace.
Very few traces remained of Charlotte Cambric’s demure niece who graced Victorian weekends and guided tourists from original manuscripts to sherry and seed cake. She had become a sophisticated minx who was thoroughly enjoying life, confident in her command of the situation in general and her companion in particular.
Rupert was less assured. He faced the older man anxiously like a runner who has finished a race but is uncertain of the result.
“Very quickly now,” said Campion. “This chap Lawn has apparently skipped the coun
