He forced her arm back, away, stretching it out to keep the weapon at bay. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. She wanted to live. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. ‘Ha! It’s you, is it?’ He threw a glance at his two juniors. Something he saw there made him feel for a moment ashamed. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper.
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