He turned his head and smiled over his shoulder at his son.
“Come up, my Jack the Giant-killer! Where is our little mistress, our inspirer of heroics?”
Anne Purcell bent toward him—as though swayed by her woman’s instinct.
“The little fool shall stay at home in future—”
“Psst—beware—!”
My lord gave a forced laugh, and looked upward over my lady’s shoulder. He had caught sight of Barbara standing in the doorway of the salon.
“Behold the inflamer of the peaceful citizens of Westminster! Mistress Barbara, my child, see what an obstinate mouth will do!”
Anne Purcell and Hortense had both turned toward the salon. My Lord Stephen was at the stair’s head, his son a little below him, with the light from the lantern falling full upon his face. But the girl standing in the doorway of the salon seemed the significant and compelling figure of the moment. She was staring at John Gore with a bleak intentness that ignored the three who waited for her to make way.
“Barbara!”
Her mother seized her arm and pushed her—almost roughly—into the salon.