CHAPTER TEN

Bloody, damn bitch. Having filled the brass goblet with claret, Divers O’Roarke flung it against the fireplace. Not that it made a deal of difference. Brass goblets? Who the hell had brass goblets? They bounced all over the fecking rug, splattering everything with the contents. Dark red drops dribbled down the ancient stone. What satisfaction did that give him, standing here amongst the guttering candles and the remains of the dinner, in flickering shadow-light, that damnable smell of beeswax in his nostrils? He never lost his temper like this. Not so he wanted to rip the mantelshelf from the wall. He leaned his palms on the mantelpiece, raised his chin, growled through his clenched teeth.

“And don’t say I told you so.”

“I’m not,” Gil said. “Just wondering what the hell you said.”

“I told her Lydia was not for discussion. What the hell else could I say?”