Sir Anthony held out his hands in a gesture of innocence. 'My hands are clean, Rafferty.' He gazed down at them from his throne-like chair. They were strong hands, expertly manicured, rich and smooth like the rest of him. 'Everyone knows that my wife and I live virtually separate lives and have done for some years. It's no secret. It suits us both rather well. My wife has the Hall and her church committees. I—I have another hobby, as you have discovered. Women. But not cheap tarts, Rafferty. My tastes run to something a little more up-market.'
Frustrated that his words hadn't had the desired effect, and that Llewellyn would be sure to rub it in, in bloody Latin, Rafferty was, for the moment, content merely to listen, while frantically scurrying about in his head to resurrect his argument.
