Unclaimed (Turner #2)(26)

“Plenty of what?”

“Plenty of arguments one could make at a debate,” said a voice to his right. Mark felt a tingle travel down his spine. He turned slowly to see Mrs. Farleigh at the edge of the crowd. Nobody moved to let her through.

Tolliver frowned. “Such as?”

She shrugged, nonchalantly. “Well. I shouldn’t know them. But a hypothetical debate might say something about an organization that privileges the wearing of ribbons and armbands over any actions that had meaning.”

Mark couldn’t argue with that. “Go on.”

She met his eyes. “And I suppose someone—not me, of course—might even take to task a moral system that rigidly emphasizes adherence to a few select principles, without any attempt at considering the relative value of those principles in individual circumstances.”

Tolliver frowned. “What sort of individual circumstances could you mean? If it’s right, it’s right. If it’s wrong, it’s wrong.” He shrugged. “What’s to argue?”

“Oh, certainly. I could not make such an argument. But a skilled debater might ask what one would do if one were forced to choose between saving an innocent child’s life or engaging in unchaste behavior.”

Tolliver’s frown deepened, and he rubbed his chin.

“This is, after all, the choice that some unfortunate women are put to—sell their bodies, or see their children starve.”

Tolliver’s eyes grew round, and his mouth screwed up. Had nobody ever posed him a basic moral dilemma before?

“I— That is—” He glanced over at Sir Mark in supplication. “I’m sure that’s wrong, because…because…”

Mark took pity on him. “Yes,” he said briskly. “It’s the old ‘tupping for kittens’ argument. I hear that one a lot.”

She choked. “Tupping for which?”

“Kittens. It usually goes like this—suppose that a madman has sixteen precious, innocent kittens in a sack. He threatens to throw them all in the river to drown unless I engage in intercourse with some woman, who is agreeable. What do I do?”

Mrs. Farleigh stared at him. “What do you do?”

“Assuming those are my two choices—tup, or the kittens shuffle off this mortal coil—well, it’s simple. My moral code is not so rigid that I would let innocents suffer.”

“But—”

“I would also tell lies, strike another man in the stomach and blow my nose in the Queen’s presence. All for the benefit of kittens.”

“Lucky kittens,” Mrs. Farleigh managed. She was doing a poor job of suppressing a smile. Around her, the crowd shifted in confusion. Mark wanted to see her laugh.

“I admit there are some times when chastity is not the right answer. You see? You have me there. In most circumstances, though, there are no kittens. No madmen. There’s just a choice to make, and a simple one at that. One mustn’t justify day-to-day morality with extraordinary circumstances. Otherwise, we would all feel free to rape and murder at the drop of a cat.”

Stunned silence reigned. But he’d won. The corners of Mrs. Farleigh’s mouth curved up. “You’ve convinced me,” she said. “No debate is possible.”

She was mocking him with that. It had been a long time since someone had questioned him. It had been a very long time since he’d had this much fun.

“In any event,” she added, “if one wants to save kittens, I suppose it’s more effective to beat the madman into smithereens.”

“Still, if I’m ever faced with the prospect,” he said casually, “I’ll think of you.”

Her eyes widened in shock. In fact, everyone’s eyes widened in shock.

Had he really just said…? Oh, yes. Yes, he had. In front of everyone. He could feel his cheeks heating.

Mrs. Farleigh was the first to recover. “Don’t,” she replied solemnly. “Impending kitten death would ruin the atmosphere. Besides, you’ve convinced me. Your moral code seems not just flexible—in fact, it might be a bit floppy.”

If it had been silent before, it was like death now. Actually, some wicked part of him whispered in response, I have no problem being rigid, too, if that’s what the situation demands.

Thank God that this little public slip had happened in Shepton Mallet rather than London. People here would talk—but gossip would alter their words entirely. And while the gist of the conversation might be repeated in shocked tones from here to Croscombe, at least it wouldn’t be trumpeted in every paper by breakfast tomorrow.

As if conjured entirely from his imagination, a thin weedy voice spoke. “I say, Sir Mark. Could you repeat that?”

No. No. It couldn’t be.

The owner was hidden by the crowd. But Mark knew the speaker all too well. He could see the fraying edge of a top hat at the very edge of the group, obscured by heads and shoulders.

Nigel Parret. What was he doing in Shepton Mallet?

No point even asking the question. Parret pushed through the crowd, closer to Mark. He held a tiny notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other. He looked up at Mark. No man with a mustache like that should ever try to look innocent, Mark decided. It could never work. Besides, Mark knew the man all too well. Nigel Parret was not just a reporter. He was the worst kind of gossip.