“Your sister is here, sir, in the green salon, when you are ready.”
“For?”
“You promised to escort her to the launch of the Torva Venti. A French airship.”
Now Duncan remembered. “The captain is an exile from his homeland,” he said. “I’m sure I read that in the papers. During the War, the Venti’s captain risked everything, smuggling political prisoners out of England.”
* * * *
“You look lovely, as always, Alethea,” Duncan greeted his sister. The baby of the family before he had come along, Alethea was firmly on the shelf, a spinster of twenty-seven. She didn’t look it; youth was still glowing from her skin and her mouth turned up in a perfect bow of delight when she saw him.