Chapter Forty-One
Their first stroke of good luck was that Lord Flint was at home. Their second was that he believed the valet’s account of what had happened. He insisted on accompanying them to talk with Lord Abbishaw. Perry wasn’t sure whether that counted as a third stroke of good luck or not, but he suspected it might.
Baron Flint was thin and stooped and liberally afflicted with liver spots, but despite his apparent frailty his pace was brisk as he marched across the twilit square. Flint was a man on a warpath, if Perry was any judge, and while it was still doubtful that Saintbridge’s perfidy would be exposed to the world—noble families liked to hide their shameful secrets—it did look as if Lord Abbishaw would be forced to confront the ugly truth about his heir.
The door to the Abb
