Murder in Retribution by Anne Cleeland Page A

declared with finality as she pulled on her gloves with a jerk.
    Wait eight more months, thought Doyle, and tried again. “I will never see my own mother on this earth again, ma’am; that is the terrible meanin’ of never. Please think on it.”
    It was clear the dowager did not appreciate being lectured on familial obligations by a miscreant, and made her stately way to the door. “My ridiculous son has entered into a miscegenation of the worst order. I have nothing more to say.”
    The words touched a very sensitive nerve, and Doyle’s fury was suddenly unchecked as she sprang to her feet. “You’ll not be comin’ into my home and be insultin’ my husband,” she hissed through her teeth. “Out the door wi’ ye, ye harridan.” She took a threatening step toward the older woman, tempted to draw her weapon for emphasis.
    So as to avoid bloodshed, Marta hurried forward to open the door, and Lady Acton exited with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances. After the door was shut, Doyle had to struggle with her temper for a moment before addressing Marta. “How did this come about?” She had no illusions; Marta had obviously contacted Acton’s mother as soon as she realized Doyle would be home alone. Nevertheless, she wanted to hear what the housekeeper would say.
    The other made no effort to concoct a story. “I do beg your pardon, my lady.”
    Ah, thought Doyle; when I’m in a fury, I’m “my lady.”
    “She is my old mistress, and I could not refuse her.”
    This was a lie, but no more than Doyle had expected. “You may go, Marta,” she said coldly. She then retreated to the bedroom to lie down, still trembling with rage. As is human nature, she relived every word of the encounter, and thought of a good many things she should have said. Her mobile rang; it was Acton.
    “I’m on my way; I should be home within the hour.”
    “That’s grand, Michael,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral.
    “What has happened?” he asked immediately. No point in trying to hide it if something had upset her; his radar was extremely fine-tuned.
    She sighed. “Your mother came to visit.”
    There was an astonished pause. “My mother?”
    “Aye, that.”
    There was another pause. “Is all the crockery broken?”
    She smiled, and felt better immediately. “I controlled myself, I did.”
    “Good girl. Should we talk about it now or when I get in?”
    “It can wait,” she replied. “I did not show to advantage.”
    “Impossible,” he assured her, and rang off.
    She decided she felt well enough to get up and make herself presentable, which meant taking off her clothes and brushing out her hair. If Acton was in sexual thrall, she’d best look lively.
    He arrived a commendably short while later and kissed her as he came in, running his eyes over the area where her robe gaped. He was distracted, however, and wanted to hear what had happened.
    “You may be needin’ the scotch,” she warned him.
    “That’s as may be,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
    She realized that Acton had not been drinking as much these past several weeks, and she felt another stab of shame—another indication that he was the grown-up, between them. Trying to stay calm, as though she were giving a report, she described to him in general terms the battle between the Lady Actons, thinking to edit the more explicit insults. He listened to the recitation, making no comment. Although she put it off as long as possible, she reluctantly concluded, “I should mention that durin’ the conversation she made a comment about our sex life.” He would draw his own conclusion as to the nature of the comment, of course; they would probably qualify for an Olympic team, if there were such an event.
    He was furious, as she knew he would be. “Marta?”
    “I imagine so. They were both already here when I came in.”
    Acton looked grim. “She has no business letting anyone into our flat.”
    Doyle decided that she may as well make