“You didn’t do badly. I don’t expect you to grovel, and it wouldn’t help if you did: he sees weakness as an invitation to abuse. Actually, Phoebe asked me how I could do this to you, and says if we don’t leave at once she’ll come and get us.”

“Doesn’t get on with your family, then?”

“She’s met Chingford a couple of times and loathes him as far as she can loathe anyone. I don’t honestly know what would happen if she and my father were in a room together. The irresistible force and the immovable object.”

“My money’s on her.”

“Perhaps,” Kim said. “They’re off to visit Florrie Jacobs to check she’s all right, by the way. And she says Maisie hasn’t seen the papers but she’ll give her all assurances.”

“Good. Thanks. Here, did you know—”

“Of course I did. Phoebe was pining for months.”

“You could have told me. And she’s going to come and rescue us?”

“I wish she would,” Kim said, and they walked on.

Chapter Seventeen

Lord Flitby returned around five that evening, in a hell of a mood.

Will and Kim were in the gold and green drawing room again, which was apparently called the Sheraton Room. Will hadn’t got any fonder of the furniture for knowing its provenance. He heard the shouting from down the hall, mostly Lord Chingford’s bellowing outrage, and before long a footman appeared. “His lordship requests your presence in the Blue Drawing-Room, Lord Arthur.”

“I bet that’s not how he put it,” Kim said. “Right, time for the big event. Shall we go?”

“He didn’t request Mr. Willerton, Lord Arthur,” the footman said. His face was impassive but his eyes were alarmed. “That is, he specifically said just you.”

“I’ll tell him you passed that on,” Kim said. “And we’ll conduct ourselves there.”

“Thank you, Lord Arthur,” the man muttered, and disappeared.

Will got up and squared his shoulders. “Here we go. You ready for this?”

“Oddly, yes,” Kim said. “I am. This conversation will be the nadir of my relationship with my family: things literally cannot get any worse than they’re about to. That’s rather liberating, in its way.”

He set off down the endless corridors. Will followed, reflecting not for the first time that they might as well be different species.

The raised voices were audible through the door. Kim gave a perfunctory knock and went in. “Sir.”

Lord Chingford was standing by the window, bright red in the face, arms folded. Lord Flitby swung around to glare at Will. “I gave instructions—”

“I received and ignored them.”

The Marquess swelled. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, I ignored them. Shall we get to the point?”