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could evaluate it as a piece of art, knowing all the time it was affirmation that Cotter had guessed the entire truth about Deborah’s relationship with Lynley. In spite of the sight of them together in his car last night, St. James knew that he had been holding on to an insubstantial thread of hope. It snapped before his eyes. He looked at Deborah.
    Two spots of colour had appeared high on her cheeks. “Heavens, I’m not a very good hostess, am I? Would you like something to drink? Gin and tonic? Or there’s whisky. And tea. There’s tea. I’ve lots of tea. I was about to—”
    “No. Nothing. You’ve someone coming. I’ll not stay long.”
    “Stay for tea. I can set another place.” She went to the tiny kitchen.
    “Please, Deborah. Don’t,” St. James said quickly, imagining the awkward civility of getting through tea and three or four digestive biscuits while Deborah and Lynley made polite conversation with him, all the time wishing he would be on his way. “It’s really not right.”
    Deborah paused at the kitchen cupboard, a cup and saucer in her hand. “Not right? What d’you mean? It’ll just be—”
    “Listen, little bird.” He wanted only to get everything said, do his miserable duty, keep his promise to her father, and be gone. “Your father’s worried about you.”
    With studied precision, Deborah put down the saucer, and then, even more carefully, the cup on top of it. She lined them up with the edge of the work top. “I see. You’re here as his emissary, aren’t you? It’s hardly the role I’d expect you to play.”
    “I told him I’d speak to you, Deborah.”
    At that—perhaps it was the change in his tone—he saw the spots of colour on her cheeks deepen. Her lips pressed together. She walked to the day bed, sat down, and folded her hands.
    “All right. Go ahead.”
    St. James saw the unmistakable flicker of passion cross her face. He heard the first stirring of temper in her voice. But he chose to ignore both, deciding to go on with what he had come to say. He assured himself that his motivation was his promise to Cotter. His given word meant commitment, and he could not leave without making certain Cotter’s concerns were explained to his daughter in the most explicit terms.
    “Your father’s worried about you and Tommy,” he began, in what he deemed a reasonable manner.
    She countered adroitly. “And what about you? Are you worried as well?”
    “It has nothing to do with me.”
    “Ah. I should have known. Well, now that you’ve seen me—and the flat as well—are you going to report back and justify Dad’s worries? Or do I need to do something to pass your inspection?”
    “You’ve misunderstood.”
    “You’ve come snooping around to check up on my behaviour. What is it exactly I’ve misunderstood?”
    “It isn’t a question of your behaviour, Deborah.” He was feeling defensive, decidedly uncomfortable. Their interview wasn’t supposed to take this course. “It’s only that your relationship with Tommy—”
    She pushed herself to her feet. “I’m afraid that’s none of your business, Simon. My father may be little more than a servant in your life, but I’m not. I never was. Where did you get the idea you could come round here and pry into my life? Who do you think you are?”
    “Someone who cares about you. You know that very well.”
    “Someone who…” Deborah faltered. Her hands clenched in front of her as if she wished to stop herself from saying more. The effort failed. “Someone who cares ? You call yourself someone who cares about me? You, who never bothered to write so much as a single letter all the years I was gone. I was seventeen years old. Do you know what that was like? Have you any idea since you care so much?” She walked unevenly to the other side of the room and swung to face him again. “Every day for months on end, there I was, waiting like an idiot—a stupid little fool—hoping for word from you. An answer to my letters.