Oliver. And one for Miss Sloane.” It was late, but the dowager had insisted that they join her for a glass of spirits in the private study adjoining her bedchamber. “I think I have had enough,” said Shannon, though the mellow warmth did feel good inside her. “Bollocks,” said Lady Octavia. “Trust me, gel, after a nasty shock, strong Scottish malt is the best medicine. One more shot won’t hurt.” She flinched slightly at the word. “An unfortunate turn of phrase, milady, considering what transpired earlier today. But I heartily second the sentiment,” murmured Orlov. “Za Zdorovie.” The dowager replied in Gallic before tossing back a sip of the spirits. “What the devil really happened this morning?” Shannon stared into the dregs of her glass. The whisky’s heat began to burn in her throat. “I wish I could say.” A glance at Orlov elicited no immediate comment. It wasn’t like him to be at a loss for words, but then, he had been strangely quiet since the incident.
