So here's another product of MrsTater's and my crazy minds. Exploring the untold story behind s2 was not enough for our curious minds so we launched this s4 AU. Hope you'll like it! Just like for Cliveden conversations, the updates will be quite erratic, so bear with us!

London, spring 1922

Around Fleet Street, the passer-by was usually stunned by the never-ending buzz of activity. In the morning, boys in knickers and caps received stacks of fresh newspapers from the back alley warehouses and ran to their designated corners. Men in business suits, tailored and cheap alike, walked in and out the Victorian buildings, mingling for a moment before reaching the shelters of their floors or desks. Secretaries stepped down from the busses, chatting animatedly, sharing the latest gossips before scattering to their respective buildings. In the evening, the same ballet started again, in reverse.

To the innocent observer, the Victorian façades naturally hid the heart of Fleet Street, each building standing strong and tall like a castle of ancient times, reigning on Lord Northcliffe's or Lord Beaverbrook's territories, or the Upstart-from-Glasgow-slums' smaller one. However, the inhabitants of this strange country that was Fleet Street knew better. The real local life blossomed in small restaurants and smoky pubs in which true negotiations were held and informants interviewed. In some places, a kind of truce existed between the populations from rival buildings. Those were the places where an informal dinner could disarm regrettable tensions between editors from the Daily Mail and the Daily Express, the places where information could be shared, almost freely, always for a price, high or low.

Then, there were the more private places, monopolized by the members of one gang exclusively, where strangers were barely tolerated and regarded with suspicion. The Smoking Cat was this kind of pub, almost as welcoming as a home to Richard Carlisle. Since the divorce, this was one of the only places where he could have a meal or a drink without casting suspicious glances around him, in search of too observing eyes.

His hurried wedding to Russian heiress Nadia Dimitrova Vronski a few months after the break-up of his year-long engagement to Lady Mary Crawley had not been deemed newsworthy. In fact, people had proved more curious about the hurried wedding of his ex-fiancée to the heir of the Grantham title. His recent divorce, on the other hand, had seemed to transform him into the main focus of Londonian gossips. Apparently, a cuckolded press baron was so much fun to talk about, especially when his now ex-wife lived the big life her family and she had to abandon in Russia back in 1917 at his expense.

In this context, the Smoking Cat, its phonograph always playing New Orleans tunes, its incomparable choice of whisky and rum, and its Caribbean gastronomy – the owner had lived two decades in the British Antilles before returning to the London smog – provided the perfect locale to seek tranquility and privacy before going home to his two year-old son, and devise plans to get his shaken empire under control once again.

If there was a bastard able to use a costly divorce to his advantage, Richard was that bastard, and when Fleet Street would remember that fact, he would have succeeded in the most audacious coup d'Etat he had organized since the one that gave him the control of the Evening Times fifteen years ago.

An arm raised above the crowd, motioning him to come closer, and Richard waved back at the bunch of men settled by the bar, a smile forming on his lips as he lit another cigarette. Everyday like the one before, he could count on the gang of not-so-young-anymore Turks that had followed his crazy plans for the last two decades.

The Smoking Cat was a far cry from any establishment Edith was accustomed to as the Earl of Grantham's daughter, but every night couldn't be the Criterion, she supposed. With Michael soon bound for Germany, she was grateful for every moment they could spend together, no matter where that might occur.

Truth be told, there was something rather appealing about sitting in a darkened corner of a pub with Michael after work, of not dressing for dinner-and of course you couldn't get food like this at the Criterion, or any other restaurant her mother might have approved of. This is how the other half live, she thought, sipping a hearty spiced soup that was just the thing after their unseasonably brisk walk over from the Sketch office; she was beginning to wonder if this half didn't live better than hers.

At the moment, the other half included a familiar face at the bar with sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes beneath a strong brow, and a head of thinning blond hair.

"My God," murmured Edith, giving Michael a nudge beneath the table with her knee, "is that Sir Richard Carlisle?"

"Hmm?" Michael looked up rather distractedly in the direction she indicated. "Oh, I suppose it is."

He went back to his newspaper, but Edith was intrigued. It wasn't such a great surprise to bump into the publisher on Fleet Street, the site of his empire, but it was odd to see her sister's former-fiance for the first time since their tumultuous engagement had come to its end.

Since Mary's husband had died.

Since Sir Richard's own recent divorce.

Funny, that was the first time she'd even heard he'd been married-and a low-profile wedding was not at all what she'd expected from him when his plans with Mary had been for a spectale more suited to royalty than an earl's daughter. Having seen him only in the context of Downton, she took the opportunity now to observe, in a habitat she supposed was more natural to him that her ancestral home-a notion she understood more than she had at the time, feeeling her ancestral was not even the correct context for her.

The thought of royalty did stick in her head as she watched him lean against the bar, a cigarette clutched between his fingers with a lazy elegance that seemed so peculiar to a self-made man, slightly aloof from his four companions.

"The king and his court," Edith said, and brought her soup spoon to her lips.

Michael looked up with a laugh. "What, Carlisle?" He twisted in his chair to look back again, then turned back to Edith with a smile on his lips and a glimmer in his eyes. "More like a gang leader."

Edith took another look at the group at the bar; they were all dressed well enough, but there was a certain scruffiness to the four strangers-collars undone, neckties loosened, waistcoats open, days' growth of stubble-that did make Michael's description seem apt. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but the four appeared to have a playful rapport with their leader even as they looked on him with unmistakable admiration.

"Fagin and his little band of ruffians?" she said. "How Dickensian. Do you know them all?"

Michael had, of course, been in Sir Richard's employ, the Sketch having belonged to him before Michael bought it.

"Not well. They all came over together from Glasgow together, and weren't known for welcoming outsiders into the inner circle. Tremendous egos, the lot of them-Carlisle's the only one who can keep them all in line."

"Because his is the biggest ego of all?"

Michael gave her his lopsided grin over his beer. "Exactly."

Another companionable silence settled over them, during which Edith amused herself watching the Glasgow Gang.

"What do you imagine they're plotting?"

"Finally escaped Miss Field's evil clutches?" Pete Inzaghi, his star caricaturist, mused as he poured himself a very generous glass of rum. The night was still young yet his New York accent sounded heavier already.

"What a surprise," Duncan Reid, editor of Richard's main sports paper, said in a low groaning tone. "Somebody who likes a job well-done would necessarily be evil to you, wouldn't they Pete? By the way where are my drawings? I remember you promised me..."

"I'm imagining them as we speak, my friend. I just need inspiration." For dramatic effect, the artist raised his dark eyebrows, and smoothed his mustache, an amused smile lifting the corner of his mouth. For their Yankee friend, inspiration was always fueled by an unreasonable amount of booze. Sometimes, Richard had to wonder if the outlandish salary he paid Pete was really what kept the man in London, and not the tiny little fact that alcohol was not prohibited in Britain.

"Personally, I'm more interested in MacIdiot's promise," a pair a harsh blue eyes caught Richard's attention.

Always trust Saul Cohen to ask the annoying questions.

"Which one? Not to wear a kilt at your daughter's wedding?" Richard feigned innocence.

The clearly not amused stare his main investor shot back at him told him that the man was beyond pleasantries. Saul was a walking paradox, a disheveled man with rebellious strands of greying hair who organized his business with maniacal care, a millionaire who complained about the price of a pint of guinness, a Jew who could claim to have deeper roots in Glasgow than any of them, since the day he had found an old document attesting that the count of Argyll owed a hundred pounds to one of Saul's ancestors, a certain Solomon Cohen, back in the fourteenth century. Since then, the Cohen dynasty had ridden the wheel of fortune, endured persecutions and confiscations, enjoyed great influence and power. Saul was their latest representant, a man who preferred the shadows of power to the glaring sun of responsibility.

"Back in January, you told us not to worry when you abandoned your bloody shares in the Telegraph, and asked us for two months of our patience…."

Richard took a sip of his whisky, enjoying the bitter taste of the Talisker. It was high time to put his newest plan into motion.

"Well, Mr. Shylock, two months were the time Keith and I needed to review all the contracts of the Telegraph crew, and check that all the people that count do have a personal contract with my company, and not with the paper."

Blue eyes shone gleefully. Nothing satisfied Saul like the perspective of a good game of chess. This was how Richard had pulled him on board in the first place, providing him with a new challenge.

"And that's the case?"

"Yep," Richard asked for another glass of whisky, and took a cigar out from his inside pocket, the kind reserved for celebration.

"So, when does the Exodus start?" Duncan wondered, always impatient. "Shall I have the pleasure of observing the first effects before I go back home to mind the shop?"

Home was Glasgow, and always would be. That was where everything started.

"When I notify the Telegraph editor that I won't work for them anymore," Pete poured himself another glass.

"That's to say a week from now, when we'll announce our new publication, with Nicky Vassiliev at the helm." Keith spoke for the first time. Until this moment, the man had remained silent. Actually, he was the quiet member of the heteroclite bunch of friends Richard had collected around him years after years. Most of time, he was perfectly content with sipping his drink while smiling at his companions' antics, his narrowed eyes bright with silent mischief. Frivolous banter was not his thing, but he swam in technicalities and commercial strategies like a shark in high waters.

"Vassiliev?" Saul whistled between his teeth, his blue eyes bright with childlike mischief. "You really aren't the spiteful type, are you, McIdiot?"

Richard played dumb, decided not to let his friends drag him to this particular place.

"Why?"

"Isn't he the one who introduced you to a certain blonde beauty?"

"Didn't twist my arm either," Richard admitted grudgingly. He had behaved like a blind idiot back then, and he more than deserved this new nickname, as tiring as it was. "Considering he's a convinced Menchevik, I couldn't guess that his ex-girlfriend would turn out to be a closet Tsarist nostalgic."

Richard could feel his ears turn red, and he had not drunk enough to be able to blame it on the whisky or the stuffy atmosphere. Pensively, he stroke his newly bearded chin before replying less animatedly.

"And," he began, elbowing his star caricaturist in the ribs. "If some awkward fool had kept his mouth shut about my personal involvement in the press campaign that had led to the end of the British intervention in Russia back in 1919, I most probably be heading home to my shaky family right now, not sitting here in a crowded pub."

To his credit, Pete looked almost apologetic as he drained his glass.

"So, Vassiliev will be at the helm, and with the addition of Pete, sweet talking most of the Telegraph crew to switch sides will be easy as pie." You could always trust Keith to stir a conversation back into the right direction. "If my projections are right, we should be able to attract the best crew from the Telegraph before the end the year, and within two years, with only the Conservative idiots left, the paper will sink as surely as the Titanic did. They'll run to Northcliffe and the Daily Mail, and we shall get our paper back."

Saul raised an admiring eyebrow and whistled between his teeth. He had to. Keith's projections were always accurate, and generally quite pessimistic, just to be cautious.

"Where do I sign?"

Saul Cohen was the best investor in the world. He hated Northcliffe's guts, for reasons only he knew, and he loved a good adventure.

"If he's really the ruthless player we always believed him to be," answered Michael, "he's strategizing how to get back in the game. That divorce cost him much more than a chance at a peerage, you know."

"I don't know," Edith regarded him with some surprise. "Do you mean his political reputation because of the Tsarist ties?" She had done a column on the plight of disenfranchised Russian aristocrats, though it had not been one of her more popular articles.

"Well there's that, of course, but I was referring to the financial settlement."

This was somewhat of a let down. "I can't imagine a man like Richard Carlisle would come out too badly in a divorce."

"That's the thing, though, he did. There's a child-which rather explains why the marriage occurred in the first place, so quickly on the heels of his break with your sister."

"Indeed." Edith sipped her wine, and shook her head. "What a double standard. If he were a woman who married soon after a whirlwind affair, it would have been all over the papers."

"Yes, well…" Michael shifted in his seat. "He's been made a fool of twice now, in as many years. That's a little more newsworthy. Especially when he's paying for it with a large number of shares in his papers, and his estate."

"Do you mean Haxby?" The surprising turns in this story never ceased.

"I suppose so?"

"He bought it for Mary, when they were engaged."

"Ah," said Michael, with something like a smirk on his normally mild, kind smile. "Salt in the wounds. Anyway, people say he didn't want the boy being raised as another bitter Tsarist nostalgic, and those were his wife's terms. Both of them got what they wanted, Carlisle got the boy, and his wife got a chance at recreating her old life."

"I see."

Edith's gaze wandered once more to the bar, where Sir Richard hunched, smoking pensively as his gang, as Michael called them, talked to each other around him, laughing frequently. She thought how often he had been alone at Downton, not really a part of the group, and how little effort had been made by any of them to welcome him as part of the family. She had been as guilty as anyone of operating under the assumption that he was only using Mary as the next rung up his social ladder, but now she wasn't so sure. If a peerage was all that mattered to him, there were lots of arrangements he could have come to without resorting to a divorce that would not only cost him financially, but be a nigh impassible social barrier to overcome. And apparently he'd done it for his son?

"I think the real story here," Edith said, "is that Sir Richard is looking for the same thing all of us are."

Michael leaned back in his chair, regarding her with his head tilted. "You see him as somehow a tragic romantic figure?"

"I don't know about that." But she did know something about the humiliation of being jilted, publicly. Cheeks burning but jaw set, she slid out of the booth. "I'm going to go speak to him."

"So, Richard…" Duncan dragged his stool closer to him, an unlit cigarette stuck between his clenched teeth, an habit that gave the sports editor his trademark cocky and wolfish grin.

Involuntarily, Richard felt his shoulder tense in anticipation. This kind of casual introduction was always followed by the craziest and least reasonable demands. What was the guy up to this time? Richard looked up for some help, but, besides them, Keith was lost to him, entranced in his debate about which restaurant in Glasgow served the best cranachan. As if to prove a point, Pete was poking Keith's stomach - testimony to the man's fondness for good old Scottish cuisine and beer - impertinently, a sure sign of the caricaturist's growing intoxication.

"Yes?"

"It appears that this automobile race in Le Mans is a done deal for next year."

"Looks like it. Good for the Frenchies, they put forth great effort into this," he answered diplomatically.

"I want the exclusity on this."

How predictable.

Richard took out another cigarette and snapped the case closed sharply. He lit up and tried not to grimace. After the strong aroma of the cigar, the cigarette left a foul taste on his tongue.

"Let me see if I understood clearly. You want me to let you loose on this topic, right? Because, with exclusivity comes total freedom, doesn't it?"

His friend had the decency not to deny.

Richard breathed deeply.

"Remember the last time you asked for total exclusivity, Duncan?" he exhaled the smoke from his lungs as he spoke.

"Not my fault if you misjudged the impact of the Olympics' return would have on the public. The papers I'm responsible of were in top form and brought you loads of money."

Richard could not deny it, but he would be caught dead before admitting it aloud, in front of Duncan of all people. To be totally honest, he had missed the ball on that one, not being able to recognize how much the scarred people all around Europe needed this kind of futile event to feel really at peace, at last, less than two years after the armistice. The fact that he had recently learnt that his casual mistress was around two months pregnant at the time was no excuse.

"And I thank you for that. But as a publisher, I have to think about the whole group, and I can't forget you almost sinked the Herald with your stunts." Richard took a sip from his glass of whisky, the third or maybe the fourth in the evening. It was high time to go back home. Before that, he had to make a point, though. "Do you remember the time before last?"

"The Tour de France was the big thing, then! How could I ever predict that some maniac would shoot at the Archiduke?" Reid protested in a protesting growl before shrugging resignatedly.

Richard could not help but smile. In the strangest way, the summer of 1914 had not the same meaning for Duncan as for the vast majority of Europeans. The man could be so close-minded at times! In all Europe, people only read papers to learn about the latest news, to know if peace had been saved or not.

But not Duncan.

The man had bet on the promotion of the Tour de France 1914 and focused all of his editorial efforts to this end. In the beginning it had worked, papers sold so well that reprints were necessary. But as the crisis grew bigger and bigger, as the threat loomed closer and closer, people forgot all about the cycling epic, and the sales dropped drastically, never to go up ever again. Then, for the following four years, all that mattered was the bloodbath on the continent. Duncan's paper neevr recovered form that blow, and for the first time of his career, Richard was forced to abandon one of his papers. Duncan Reid lived, breathed, ate and drank sports. In peacetime, it was his strength. When the political context became overwhelming, it was his biggest flaw as an editor. As the European crisis grew more accute day after day, he had remained deaf to what he called political shenanigans, only interested in his damn Tour de France, unaware of the fear that submerged every man and woman in Britain, in Europe. Actually, the only ones who had lived through the summer of 1914 without being conscious of what had been at stake then were probably Mary and her idiotic late husband.

"At the very least, can you get the BBC on board? Road racing is just made for radio-diffusion, you know," Reid asked again, less vehemently.

Now, that was a reasonable request, at last.

"Why not?" Richard answered amicably before his smile froze on his face as he recognized a familiar blonde walking to their group.

Just his luck.

The evening had started out so well.

The look on Sir Richard's face when their eyes met across the pub made Edith stop in her tracks, nearly resulting in a collision with a barmaid carrying a tray of drinks. Pleasure was clearly not the emotion he felt on seeing her, and for a moment she considered turning back. But then, just as quickly, he masked the expression with a bland smile, and he rose from his stool. She smiled, too, and continued her approach.

"Sir Richard," she said, reaching out to shake his hand. "I hope I'm not interrupting," she added, noting the curious faces of his three companions, "but I saw you sitting over here and couldn't pretend I hadn't. It's been a while. I hope you're well?"

Well?

Considering who the man following you like an obedient pet is, you perfectly know how not well I am.

Idiot.

The effort not to growl an insulting answer and turn his attention back to his friends was even greater than the one he had needed to form a smile.

"Lady Edith, what a pleasant surprise," he replied instead, cringing inwardly as soon as the words lefts his lips. Behind him, he could feel four pair of far too amused eyes. These guys' interest in his private life was getting really disturbing. "Congratulations on your column," he added politely, casting a furious glance at Pete who was cackling as he took a sip from his glass of whisky.

When had his life turned into some kind of vaudeville for his friends' amusement?

Though she suspected he didn't entirely mean it, the pleasantries must be exchanged. Why had she thought speaking to him would be a good idea? One fleeting moment of sympathy, and here she was, being laughed at by Sir Richard Carlisle's cohorts.

"Thank you," she said. "Who'd have thought one letter to the Times editor would lead to a job at the Sketch?"

"Journalism is full of beautiful stories like that," he replied as amicably as possible. Edith being Edith, chances were high that she would take his words the wrong way, especially with the four idiots contemplating the scene gleefully. She already looked as if she had the impression they were mocking her, not him.

The Crawley girls and their self-centeredness...

"Talent, opportunity and someone willing to bet on you," he enumerated, counting on his fingers as he spoke, to clarify his opinion.

This could be applied to Edith's situation, and anyone who did not know Michael Gregson would swallow the myth. However, people in the know were perfectly conscious that the talented Earl's daughter only got the job because of one of Gregson's insane bets - the man was able to bet to his very last possession when he had the feeling an idea, or a game of cards, might work - and the fact he was clearly infatuated with her.

"The Holy Trinity, as we say," Keith was the first to interfere, his eyes fixed on Gregson.

Edith didn't care for the way Richard's friend was looking at Michael, shrewd newspaperman's eyes narrowed, and she wasn't sure whether Richard himself meant his complimentary words, or was making fun of her. Nevertheless, she tried to respond like the well-bred lady she was: "If only my parents only realized there was a religious component, they might be a little more open to having a journalist in the family."

The man who'd made the joke chuckled, politely, but the sniggers of the other three as they hunched over the bar once more were anything but.

"If only Richard had worked that angle when he was to be the journalist in the family," muttered one with an American accent and a compact, muscular build, to his lanky companion with thinning grey hair who smirked into his beer.

"This unrepentant miscreant?" His companion went on, his blue eyes shining with cruel mischief. "Do you really think somebody in their right mind would swallow this kind of act? Well, some people do like to hear and see what they wish to hear and see, so… We'll never know."

Jaw tensed, Edith inhaled sharply through her nose. She ought to go back to Michael, yet something kept her rooted to the floor in front of Sir Richard. If she wanted to be taken seriously in the newspaper world which, like the rest of the world, it seemed, was dominated by men, she couldn't very well hide behind coattails, could she?

"Sir Richard," she said, "I haven't had the pleasure of meeting your partners in crime."

Richard could not help being surprised by Edith's sharp reply and raised his eyes to observe the young woman who could have been his sister-in-law. Of course, there was still the typical trembling of the chin that betrayed her discomfort, the little frown that revealed her almost paralyzing self-consciousness, but he had to admit that Edithhad grown up considerably since he last saw her more than two years ago. Being jilted at the altar might have this effect, less painful maybe than divorce or widowhood, but more humiliating most probably and certainly as traumatizing. In the worst circumstances, the ugly duckling had not quite become a swan, but her independence, and the new fashions, seemed to suit her.

"Of course, forgive my manners," he humoured her, his trademark apologetic smile forming on his lips like a bad habit - the kind of smile that said I'm sorry when his eyes remained unapologetic. He lit another cigarette before motionning behind him.

"The two schoolboys by the bar answer respectively to the names of Pete Inzaghi and Saul Cohen. The latter is my main investor, and the heir of secular familiy tradition of seedy dealing in Scottish politics. As for Pete, I've brought him back from a trip to the United States before the war. He's the main caricaturist for most of my papers."

Richard turned around to motion at his other companions.

"These guys are Duncan Reid, our Mr. Sport, and Keith McDonald, my right hand, and sometimes left one, for as long as I can remember."

"In other words, I'm d'Artagnan, and these ugly Scots are the Three Muskeeters." Pete was done cackling apparently, and had decided to present himself outlandishly, which was barely surprising, and display his most charming manners.

To what end? Richard had the sneaky impression that even Pete did not quite know himself.

As usual.

Edith shook hands with all four men, keenly aware of her mixed feelings of amusement at their boyish camaraderie, and her wariness of it. Not only because of what she knew of Sir Richard, but because Michael showed no interest in speaking with his former colleagues. Was there more to the story than he was telling?

"Well," she said, "much as I'd love to discuss which Dumas character Sir Richard best fits-"

"Richelieu," Pete interrupted. "He likes to think he's Colbert the genius, but he's clearly Richelieu."

Richard regarded him tolerantly, and Edith said, "I'd best get back to Mr. Gregson."

"Ah, Michael, we used to know him well," said Saul.

"Perhaps better than Lady Edith does," muttered Duncan.

"Dear old Mickey, a funny guy, always ready to…" Pete added, with mock nostalgia.

"Give him our regards," Richard interrupted the American hastily, in a tone that held nothing whatsoever of regard.

Keith was still silent.

Edith told them she would, and hastily made her way back to Michael, keenly aware of Richard's steady gaze at her back.

The young woman was barely out of earshot when Keith wondered aloud: "So, what do you think? Is she a fool or a complete idiot?"

"Isn't that a bit redundant?" Richard replied nonchalantly. If Edith Crawley was dumb enough to embark on a hopeless affair with a married man and a gambler, it was not his problem anymore. He went on: "As far as I know, it's no big secret that Mickey's wife's still breathing. Catatonic but alive."

The Gregsons' story was a sad one, granted, but in Richard's mind, no amount of tragedy authorized a man to fool a gullible girl like that. Maybe the scars from the engagement of doom as Pete had dubbed it were rawer than he thought.

Or maybe he simply had no tolerance for cheating bastards as a whole. He had many flaws, but not that one. After a moment of silent musing, he noticed piercing blue eyes studying him without even having the decency of doing it discretely.

"No more Crawley drama, right?" Keith had this unnerving quality of reading people like an open book, his eyes openly dissecting his interlocutors' voices and body language as efficiently as Marie Curie's X-ray.

"Have no fear, I've a full plate of Vronski drama."

"Pity though," Pete interrupted their little aparté. "She's a good writer, and I hope Mickey's stupidity isn't going to scare her away from journalism when the ugly truth comes out. It would be a waste."

Richard was tempted to agree with their resident Yankee, but he could feel Keith's silent hostility, thick as the London smog.

"If she stops writing because of that, it would only prove she started for the wrong reasons." Duncan affirmed quite brutaly, unconsciouly providing Richard with an easy way out of the uncomfortable discussion.

"True," he agreed before standing up and motioning to a waiter. It was their tradition. Richard always ended up with the bill. "Now, gentlemen, if you excuse me, there's an impatient boy who's waiting for his bedtime story."

As Edith approached the table, Michael stood. "Well?" he said, a nervous smile twitching across his face.

"That was certainly awkward."

"Why do you think I didn't go over with you?"

Edith arched her eyebrows at him as she resumed her seat. "I expected some due to his drama with Mary, but his friends hinted there was more to it than you just not being a member of their exclusive club. Care to enlighten me?"

"Newspaper secrets? Hardly."

She continued to regard him, and he frowned.

"As to my personal life," he said, taking out his cigarette case and lighter, "I've been very up front with you from the start. Don't you think if I had anything else to tell you, my darling, that I would?"

She shook herself; how could she have let the likes of Richard Carlisle and his band of merry men get to her? "Of course," she said, accepting a cigarette from him, then leaned over the table for him to light it.

The ordinarily relaxing smoke did not entirely put her at ease.