“No,” he said, his voice not angry now, but absentminded: he might have only half heard her. He looked straight through her toward the far wall. He wasn’t ignoring her existence; he’d just forgotten about it. Her mouth narrowed again. She’d seen that faraway look in his eyes during their married days. It meant he was thinking hard about a case, generally to the exclusion of her. She’d made it all too plain she’d had too much of that then. She turned and walked away. Bushell’s eyes never wavered.
“Lieutenant General Sir Horace Bragg,” he said in slow, quiet wonder. “I can’t believe it.” He’d known Horace Bragg for going on thirty years now. He couldn’t imagine his old friend being able to keep that kind of secret from him. And he’d never had the slightest inkling of it, not even after he’d found out Irene was being unfaithful with Sir David Clarke. Good God! If anyone had helped him get through the dark times after his marriage burned like an airship full of hydrogen, Horace Bragg was the man. He blinked, then chuckled softly. He was less angry with Irene now, knowing what she’d spewed out at him, than he had been while they were quarreling. With the quarrel past, it felt over, done, abruptly years old, not immediate, harsh, painful. Maybe taking up with Kathleen really had soothed some of his bitterness there - or maybe he’d needed to get that last fight out of his system. Maybe Irene had, too. But what the devil was he to do when he saw Sir Horace, which he was liable to do in a matter of seconds and would certainly do no later than tomorrow morning? How could he keep working with Sir Horace to recover The Two Georges!
He squared his shoulders. Thinking of it that way helped put matters in perspective. He’d served with plenty of men for whom he didn’t care: he was, after a fashion, even cooperating with Sir David Clarke, whom he despised. He tapped his left hand against the side of his thigh. He still thought Sir David the likeliest conduit through whom the Sons of Liberty might have learned of the King-Emperor’s plans to visit the NAU, but he had only suspicions, no evidence to support them. But this would be different from cooperating with Sir David. He’d never liked Clarke, even before the man took Irene away from him ... or she departed, however that had been. He and Sir Horace, though Something else struck him. He hadn’t seen Cecilia Bragg here at the embassy. She’d always been the self-effacing sort; Sir Horace might not have brought her along tonight. But he’d brought her to Bushell’s house that night years ago. Bushell remembered kissing her on the cheek as she and Sir Horace came through the door.
Where had Sir Horace kissed Irene, later that night?
Bushell shook his head. He couldn’t afford thoughts like that, not now. He glanced back at the icon of the Virgin. He had no great piety, but couldn’t help wishing Irene had found a different place to tell him what she’d told him. Then it occurred to him that even a pious man would agree no man - or woman save only the Virgin’s Son was without sin. Maybe the little chapel hadn’t been the worst place for such news after all.
He went out and walked back to the bar. He stiffened when he saw a red coat there, but Samuel Stanley was wearing it. Sam, who was holding a pint pot, glanced over at him as he ordered another Jameson. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” Stanley remarked. The unspoken question How many of those have you had? lay behind his words.
“I’ll drive you back to the William and Mary, if you like,” Bushell replied, answering what his adjutant had asked rather than what he’d said.
“We’d disappoint the poor fellow waiting out there for us if you did,” Stanley said, but let it go at that. He glanced toward the bartenders to make sure they couldn’t overhear before lowering his voice: “Learn anything worthwhile?”
“Oh, a couple of things,” Bushell said. Stanley brightened. Then Bushell added, “They haven’t got anything to do with the case, though, worse luck. How about you, Sam?”
“Me? I’ve learned pickled herring goes right well with ale, and I’ve learned I ought to brush up on my French: I know I’m missing half of what goes on around me. That hasn’t got anything to do with the case, either. I was hoping you’d have better news - you must have been poking into odd corners.”
“Oh, I was,” Bushell said, “and I ran into some odd people, too.” He let it go at that. Running into Irene would have been trying enough without what she’d told him. With that news... he knew he needed to do a lot more thinking.
Sam Stanley straightened to a semblance of attention, just ostentatiously enough to show Bushell he was doing it. Bushell could think of only one reason why Sam would do such a thing. He turned to find Sir Horace Bragg approaching.
“Here we are all together, a flock of Robin Redbreasts,” Bragg said, his jovial tone contrasting oddly with his usual dolorous expression. “We can give the damned Russians something to stare at.”
“Yes, sir.” Bushell brought the words out with an effort, as if he were much drunker than he was in fact. How could Sir Horace have taken Irene to bed when he and Bushell had already been friends for half a lifetime? Friends didn’t - or friends shouldn’t - do things like that. And how could he have gone on about his business afterward as if nothing had happened? It was a puzzlement. Bragg leaned close to him. “Any luck?” he whispered, breathing Scotch and tobacco into Bushell’s face.
“No, sir,” Bushell answered, as woodenly as before.
Sir Horace set a hand on his shoulder. He almost shook it off in unthinking rejection, like a horse twitching its ear to be rid of a fly - that was the hand that had cupped Irene’s breast, squeezed her bum, and then clasped his own hand in friendship. Years ago, all years ago, he reminded himself, and stood still. “We’ll get the bastards tomorrow, then,” Bragg said. He sounded very sure of himself. “It’s heading toward midnight now, though. We should break away if we’re to be good for anything in the morning. This affair will go on till all hours.” His bushy eyebrows came down in stern disapproval. “Why not?
Most of the people here don’t have to work for a living, not really.”
“I suppose not,” Bushell said - he could come out with more than two words at a time. The more he tried, the easier it became: “Let me find, uh, Kathleen.” He’d almost said Irene. To cover the near-slip, he went on, “Your driver will be wanting to get home, too, I expect.”
Bragg tried to fit a smile onto the narrow, bony contours of his face. “You always did take good care of the men in your command, Tom.”
“It’s the mark of a good officer,” Samuel Stanley observed. Half a beat too late, he added, “Sir.”
“Come on, Sam, you can help me round up the lady,” Bushell said in his best facetious tones. He wanted nothing more than to get away from Sir Horace Bragg, and, after that last dig, Stanley needed to escape the commandant.
Bushell found Kathleen near the buffet, discussing early nineteenth-century art with Comte Philippe Bonaparte. “I hold you personally responsible, Colonel, for depriving me of the company of this charming young lady,” Bonaparte said.
“I’ll survive,” Bushell said dryly. The Franco-Spanish ambassador chuckled. Bushell went on. “I have to say, Monsieur le Comte, that I may owe you an apology.”
“For taking Dr. Flannery away?” Bonaparte asked. “Other than that, you have done nothing to cause offense, I assure you.”
“No, not for that,” Bushell answered. “I’ve been thinking. You may have been right about the trouble a merely competent man can cause.” Kathleen Flannery looked a question at him. He pretended he didn’t notice.