Page 105 of A Shore Thing

“He is.” Butterfield took a second proffered sausage from Kit’s plate. “As of this spring.”

“Consul for Bristol?”

“Consul for Penwith.”

Worse and worse. “He lives in Bristol.”

“He plans to spend the bulk of every cycling season in St. Ives.”

Kit brightened. There was a very large, very aggressive, Harris Tweed–wrapped wrench in Deighton’s plans. “Shame his father’s packing him off to Scotland.”

“Scotland?” Butterfield and Kemble spoke in unison.

“Scottish office.” Kit had no idea what sorry fate Scottish office signified, but from the looks on their faces, the other men did.

“Glasgow.” Butterfield balled his napkin in his hand. “He never said.”

Kemble blanched. “Good God. They don’t mean to send me to Glasgow with him? I can’t go to Scotland. I have a fiancée.”

“You remembered,” said Butterfield dryly.

“I’ll wire my father.” Kemble pushed back his chair. “Tell him to ignore whatever he hears from St. Ives.”

“Tell him to ignore the chairman of the company?”

“Why not? Chairman’s a bloody lunatic, and everyone knows it. He’ll get some other bee in his bonnet, and…” Kemble coughed as Deighton stalked up to the table. He looked even taller in the low-ceilinged room, pale cowlick nearly brushing the rafters.

He barked, “What the devil are you two eating?”

“Nothing.” Butterfield stuffed the evidence into his mouth. “Poached herring,” he mumbled.

“You were eating sausage and talking about my father.” Deighton’s face mottled with red.

“Bacon,” said Kemble bravely, straightening his back. “In my case, it was bacon.”

At that moment, a great marmalade cat, dozing by the fire, stretched himself, took a tottering step, and hopped onto the empty chair at the head of the table.

“Stay back!” Muriel must have entered the room while everyone’s attention was occupied. She flung herself between Deighton and the table, arms outspread. “Don’t touch him!”

“Touch who?” Deighton’s jaw slackened in shock. “The woman’s raving.” He looked to Kit for confirmation. Kit looked at Muriel, who’d scooped the cat into her arms.

“I’m not raving,” she said, composed but with fire in her eyes. “I won’t stand by and let you misuse a defenseless animal.”

Deighton’s jaw firmed and his brows lowered. “That’s a sack of fleas you’re holding. I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.”

“Better than beating it with a ten-foot pole,” Kit remarked. “Delighted to hear you’ve put your school days behind you.”

“What do you mean?” Deighton rounded on him. “My school days?”

“The years you spent learning Greek and Latin, and torturing cats.”

“Griffith.” Deighton’s face was now purple. “We do not talk about school. It’s not done.”

“Sir Reggie did it.” At Muriel’s low assertion, Deighton rounded again, looming over her. His whole body quivered with rage.

She cuddled the cat protectively, then put up her chin. “It’s true, then. You are a torturer of cats.”

Deighton twitched, as though in denial. But no denial followed.