“I’m not in the public eye just now,” he said. “Though there was a time when I was, rather painfully.”
Mrs Wingate fixed him with a sharp stare.
“I can’t remember names, but I have a wonderful memory for faces. I — oh, no. Of course not.”
But her eyes were puzzled.
Stephen Elliott’s deprecating smile and unnaturally soothing voice implied that all was for the best as he said, “Mr Templar is the Saint, Laura. Surely you’ve heard of the Saint?”
“Oh, heavens,” Mrs Wingate said, losing her poise and clutching at a sapphire pendant sitting like a mahout on the elephantine bulge of her bosom.
“My dear Mrs Wingate,” Simon said lightly, “even if I were still actively pursuing my profession, I could never bring myself to swipe sapphires from such a charming throat.”
Mrs Wingate giggled, but she relinquished her grip on the pendant rather reluctantly.
“Surely you’re not — I mean—”
She glanced around apprehensively. Simon smiled at her.