“Do you want moral support? I wouldn’t normally expect the Earl to blame you, in the circumstances, but the way things have gone here, nothing would surprise me.” Lord Witton’s urgent need for money, so much worse than she’d realised, might well outweigh decency. Pat wondered if she was obliged to mention it. She didn’t want to be trapped between Bill’s confidence and Fen’s well-being.

“No, that’s all right. I dare say he’ll be disappointed but he’s a fine man at heart. I think. Load a gun and come running if I scream. Oh, but one probably oughtn’t run with a loaded gun, ought one? Like scissors.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“I know,” Fen said. “It’s part of my charm.” She sauntered out, looking irresistibly pleased with herself. Pat shook her head, went to the mirror, and discovered she was flushed and grinning like an idiot.

She found her book, which had apparently been knocked under her bed the previous night by some careless person’s flailing limb, and headed out. Fen would doubtless need some time to untangle her affairs, so Pat would find herself a nook to sit in where she could wait out the day. She decided to head for the East Wing. She was fairly sure she could reach it by carrying along the corridor from her bedroom; it was worth a try in order to avoid going through the main hall and meeting anyone.

Her room was the last one in use on this floor. The corridor took her past several closed doors, then a turn to the left brought her into the East Wing, past a servants’ stair which would lead to the working part of Rodington Court. This looked dusty with disuse, which was reasonable given the house was considerably understaffed. The main stair would be toward the front of the house. She headed in that direction, passing several doors, and indulged herself in a look-around since the area was clearly not anyone’s personal quarters.

Most of the rooms were in holland covers. Just two towards the front of the house seemed to be in occasional use: one a book-lined study of the sort that offered absolutely nothing to read, with a wide leather couch and a smell of elderly dogs and disintegrating paper; the other a bare space with a desk against one wall, a chair, and two armchairs by the empty grate, not covered and rather shabby. Neither was an inviting place to sit, though the first floor position on this empty wing would guarantee privacy. Everywhere had a smell of slightly damp dust, although the lashing rain was doubtless partially to blame for that.