Murder in Retribution by Anne Cleeland

disadvantage, coming in laden with packages from expensive stores whilst her husband was away, but any thought of offering an explanation was dismissed; she knew she talked too much when she was nervous, and she refused to be nervous before this woman, whom Acton so disliked. Instead, she walked to the table and calmly set down her packages. “I will also take tea, Marta.” Marta looked as though she expected a donnybrook, which, Doyle realized, was to her own advantage; if it came down to hand-to-hand, Doyle had the benefit of Academy training, even though the older woman outweighed her.
    As she walked around to seat herself across from the dowager, she remarked, “If I had known you were to be visitin’, ma’am, I would have been at home.”
    It was an implied rebuke, and if it was possible, the woman stiffened even more. Good one, thought Doyle with deep satisfaction ; perhaps I should mention that I recently shot and killed a man from the very spot the old dragon now sits. Unbidden, she felt a twinge of conscience; her mother’s daughter should overlook all insults in the interest of family peace, and make an effort to be civil—perhaps this visit was an olive branch.
    “I am here because I could not credit what I have heard,” the older woman rasped in a dry voice.
    Then again, thought Doyle, perhaps not.
    “How old are you?” The dowager’s tone indicated if Doyle had been fourteen she would not have been surprised.
    “I am twenty-four,” said Doyle, wishing she had put on some lip gloss; it was true she did not appear her age.
    “And undoubtedly Irish,” the older woman mused in extreme distaste, as though she hadn’t been able to credit this report without verifying it for herself.
    Doyle couldn’t resist. “Aye, that.”
    They regarded each other for a long moment, while Doyle held her tongue and tried to remember whether the Fourth Commandment applied to one’s in-laws.
    Marta brought over the tea tray to set it down, and Doyle recalled that the Commandment definitely did not apply to traitorous housekeepers. “It’s surprised I am to see you today, Marta.”
    The woman stood and crossed her hands before her; her expression wooden as she emanated waves of wariness and resentment. She is wary because she knows Acton will back me against all comers, Doyle thought; and she is right.
    “My lady was in town and thought to make a visit; I saw no harm in it—” Marta hesitated, realizing that she was in a corner, but nevertheless added deferentially, “—my lady.”
    But this was an honorific too far for the dowager, who made an aristocratic sound of outrage and shifted in her seat to address Doyle in an icy tone. “It is clear,” the woman gave Marta a sidelong glance, “—that you hold my son in some sort of sexual thrall. Deplorable.”
    Holding on to her temper only with an effort, Doyle concluded that his mother didn’t know Acton very well; she certainly wouldn’t have made such a remark if she knew how close to the truth it came, although anyone who took a gander at Doyle would not mistake her for a sexual temptress. “I’m afraid I’d rather not be bandyin’ personal matters abroad, ma’am.”
    At this additional implied rebuke, the other woman nearly quivered with outrage. “You will mind your manners, child.”
    “ ’Tis you who should mind her manners,” Doyle retorted hotly. “Have done.”
    After staring at Doyle incredulously for a long and ominous moment, the dowager rose to her feet and pronounced, “It is far worse than I could have ever imagined. I will await such time as my son comes to his senses.”
    Although she was inclined to think this a very good plan, Doyle realized that this person would be the only surviving grandparent—although it boggled the mind to imagine her baking ginger cake at Christmas. “Lady Acton, shouldn’t we be comin’ to terms? We have a common interest, after all.”
    “I shall never have a common interest with you,” the woman