Free Mad About the Boy? by Dolores Gordon-Smith Page A

men. If she was using Arthur to spur on Smith-Fennimore . . . But it sounded so
real.
Haldean suddenly worked out what was going on. Now Isabelle had finally turned Arthur down, she was wondering what she’d lost. He’d always thought Stanton had been the one who counted. Maybe, just maybe, Isabelle might start to think so too.
    â€˜More coffee, Isabelle?’ said Smith-Fennimore. He took her cup and filled it, then planted himself firmly between Isabelle and Arthur. ‘You missed all the excitement in the hall this morning.’
    â€˜I heard about it though,’ she said. ‘I can’t think what Uncle Alfred was playing at.’
    There was a very succinct answer to that but in deference to the present company, Haldean decided not to make it.
    Sir Philip cleared his throat and looked at Smith-Fennimore. ‘There’s something I want to ask you, Commander. I was wondering how it was you spoke Russian. You weren’t there in the war, were you?’
    Smith-Fennimore laughed. ‘No, unfortunately. I did ask to be sent there, because I know the country – or bits of it at least – quite well, but, on the grounds that you’re always posted where you can be of the least use, I never made it. No, it goes back to when I was a kid. I used to spend my holidays in Russia and the Baltic. The bank had a strong Russian connection and my father saw to it that I grew up speaking both Russian and French.’
    â€˜All Russians speak French, don’t they?’ said Isabelle, intelligently.
    Smith-Fennimore grinned. ‘All the educated ones used to. Goodness knows if they still do. I imagine all that stopped after the revolution in ’17. Naturally that was the end of the bank’s connection with the place, but fortunately my father had seen the writing on the wall and started to pull out before then. Things went downhill for a couple of years but I’m glad to say we had sufficient interests in both this country and the Argentine to cover the loss.’
    â€˜I’m glad to hear it,’ said Sir Philip, finishing his coffee. ‘About the bank being able to recover, I mean. There were plenty of poor devils who were ruined when Russia went up in flames.’ He put down his cup with unnecessary force. ‘Bolsheviks!’
    â€˜Talking of Bolsheviks,’ said Lady Harriet, with a glance at her husband, ‘I’m still waiting to hear an adequate explanation of what that peculiar man wanted, Victor.’
    Lord Lyvenden winced. ‘Business, my dear, business.’ Lady Harriet raised an ironic eyebrow, piercing his pomposity like a pin in a balloon. He faltered, recovered himself and blustered on. ‘Talking of business, I find I am most gravely inconvenienced by the lack of a secretary.’
    There was a collective intake of breath round the terrace at this monumental display of callousness.
    â€˜I sent a telegram to his uncle, Mr Urqhart, this morning,’ put in Lady Rivers, who had seen the frankly hostile stares of Haldean, Stanton and Smith-Fennimore. ‘I have to thank you, Lord Lyvenden, for giving me his address.’
    The hostess in her made her stress the words ‘thank you’. It wasn’t her fault it seemed sarcastic. ‘Obviously we want to do the best we can in the circumstances, and I’ve assured Mr Urqhart that we shall do everything possible. It will be a terrible blow to him, I’m sure.’
    â€˜To all of us, dear lady,’ said Lord Lyvenden, with a funereal expression. ‘And to voice my own concerns, it is especially hard to be deprived of Mr Preston’s services at a time when I can ill spare them.’
    Lady Rivers sighed and gave up.
    â€˜I am afraid I must go up to Town tomorrow to begin the search for a replacement.’
    â€˜That won’t be very hard, will it?’ asked Sir Philip, with distaste. If Lyvenden doesn’t have the hide of an elephant, thought Haldean,