Jellicoe evidently heard, for he paused and turned. He returned their gaze coolly. For a long moment it seemed he would not speak, then: ‘What is it you want, Drummond-Smith?’ he demanded, a flash of the old Jellicoe present, or something akin to it.

‘Business proposition,’ Drummond-Smith replied loudly with barely a pause. ‘I hear your place at Potts Point will soon be on the market. I might make you an offer. Cannot promise you market value, naturally, but I expect you would be glad of what you can get in the current climate. Am I right?’ And when Jellicoe’s eyes narrowed and he took a step towards them, ‘Oh, no need to make up your mind now, old man. Think on it.’ And he pulled a match from his breast pocket and proceeded to light a cigar.

Jellicoe did not hesitate but came up to Drummond-Smith and thrust his face at the other man, and even at this late stage of his demise he still retained that steady gaze, that formidable jawline, that extraordinary Iron Duke nose.

‘Your behaviour does not become you, sir, as either a gentleman or a member of this house.’

Jellicoe turned, not awaiting a reply, and left them, and Drummond-Smith, having succeeded in lighting his cigar, choked, though whether from the acrid trail of smoke or the words Jellicoe had spoken to him was unclear.

‘Really! A lecture on manners by a fellow fallen so low? Now that I call rich,’ he declared at Jellicoe’s retreating figure.

But Alasdair had eaten at Jellicoe’s table. Had consumed the fellow’s finest wine. And he had heard the man speak a dozen times in the chamber.

‘You make enemies too readily, Drummond-Smith. A man who wielded that much power in the state is not a man whom you should make an adversary.’

Drummond-Smith afforded him a sideways glance. His eyebrow crawled its way up his massive forehead. ‘You envisage a phoenix-like rising from the ashes by our fallen minister at some distant point in the future, do you? My dear Dunlevy, there are some pales beyond which no man may return.’ He puffed once, twice. Knocked ash onto the carpet. ‘A reputation is a fragile thing. The most fragile thing a gentleman possesses. More fragile than the love of a woman.’ His eyes narrowed speculatively.

Alasdair looked away, his face burning. A functionary hovered with a dustpan and brush. The little pile of grey ash lay on the carpet at their feet. Alasdair glared at the man, who slunk away.

‘You have a reputation to lose too, Drummond-Smith.’

‘I think we both know you have more to lose than I, old man.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN: ANGEL OF MERCY

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ANGEL OF MERCY