“Ms. DePaul may have her excuses,” he went on, “but there’s none can be made or honored for her brother. Another story news-noses might remember from the same dustup that dirtied Ms. DePaul. A helping hand in the Ospies’ coup, Cyril DePaul forked the ACPD over to Acherby, ensuring the swift destruction of the regionalists. He should be brought up on charges. Instead, a reliable source relayed to me he’s sitting snug and safe within the borders of the country we had to claw back from his old friends.”

Outfoxed. The word was outfoxed.

“Hear the full story tomorrow morning,” said Flanders, “from my colleagues on the A.M. Bulletin. For now, this is Marlowe Flanders, leaving you in the capable hands of Cary Reiser and his Swingin’ Six.”

The three tones chimed again, in descending order this time. A smooth-voiced advertisement for Scandal cigarettes played over the opening strains of Cary Reiser’s band.

Lillian lifted the pen from the paper and set the cap over the nib with a crisp click.

“Stephen,” she said, hearing her own words from a long way off. “Go and get your uncle, please.”

Though Cyril would not see reason, she would have gone on arguing. For every one of his refusals, she would have thrown herself harder against his stubbornness. After all: This was her fault. Her slip of the tongue with Frye had led to this, and now she would be the reason her brother hanged. Or whatever they did to traitors these days.

Eventually Magnusson opened the drawing room door and stood silently on the threshold until the shouting died away.

“I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t want to intrude. Ma’am, Ms. Simons is on the phone. I tried to put her off, but—”

“No,” said Lillian. She had heard the word so many times in the last hour that it sounded like meaningless gibberish. “Of course. I—”

Cyril walked out then, slipping the yoke of further conversation. His shoulder checked Magnusson as he pushed past, throwing the butler slightly off-balance. Magnusson recovered quickly and did not acknowledge the incident. “You’ll take the call?”

“Please,” she said, dreading it.

Honora sounded calm, collected, sympathetic. Everything Lillian did not feel.

“Lillian,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Honora.” Her professional persona settled in her veins like ice, slowing the frantic beat of her heart and cooling panic from her cheeks. “I … I should have told you he was … it happened suddenly. And I was trying to keep it quiet. It wasn’t my idea.”

Immediately, she wished she had not tacked the last bit on. It sounded both petulant and pathetic.

“I’m sure you’ll handle this with grace,” she said. “Just like you do everything.”

Lillian bit back sardonic laughter. “With things as they stand, I don’t know if I’m the best person to run your press conference this week.”

“About that…”