Quotes About Intrigue

The door opened. 'Hercules?' said Danny tremulously. 'Isosceles? The Triangle? The Angel Apostate?

I know,' said Danny Hislop. 'I want to see them being fond of one another. I want to see everybody brazening it out. And then I want to see what your petit François does to you when the party's over.

She looked,' said Alec Guthrie dryly, 'like a clever woman who was not unaware that five ill-dressed passers-by were displaying an unhealthy interest in her personal life.

I do not ask,' said Dee. 'You note I do not ask—but I would swear, by all I have learned, that you are Scorpio.' 'With the sting in the tail?' Lymond said. 'You are probably right.

Piero Strozzi closed his mouth, which had fallen ajar. 'Of course,' he said. 'You have a son, don't …' He roared. 'I beg your pardon. My foot slipped,' said Philippa. 'Have a date flan, and don't talk so much while the hautboys are playing. If you lose your voice, none of us will know what to do.

Jerott said, as Philippa had done, "And you?" And Lymond stared at him, his brows delicately lifted. "I shall gather frankincense," he replied.

Come in,' he said. 'You can use Adam's rooms.' His hand, moving upwards, drew the fair, tangled hair clear of Lymond's eyes and checked, at the shudder that ran jarring through from his fingertips. Lymond dropped his hands. He made no protest. He did not look up. But unimpeded at last, Jerott could see the look on his face and give it, sickeningly, its correct interpretation.

There are those that want to take time and men to hunt down Lymond and his band of murderers; and those that demand that Culter should lead them as proof of his loyalty. But if Richard Crawford of Culter won't interfere; says he has better business to attend to and refuses flatly to hound down his brother baying like the Wild Jagd, that still doesn't make him a traitor.

Then,' Richard said, 'I think we accept your scheme, with one important change in it. You, too, must be watched and followed.' 'And slept with?' Lymond said.

And, long since ashore with his men and his booty, Crawford of Lymond, man of wit and crooked felicities, bred to luxury and heir to a fortune, rode off serenely to Midculter to break into his new sister-in-law's castle.

Does anyone—Jerott?—know a nice clean strumpet who doesn't have the pox and will sleep in my room tonight to discourage Richard? She needn't stay beyond half an hour, and I don't want to meet her.' 'And that's a bloody waste,' said Jerott belligerently. 'And it's going to stay a bloody waste,' said Lymond tartly. 'I want a little privacy, not to work up a joint reputation as Hophni and Phinehas.

Music, the knife without a hilt.

For a moment no one spoke. Then Lymond got to his feet. 'I have a better idea. You marry her,' he suggested.

In Sevigny, there was something so deep and so dangerous that it could barely be felt. But there was no music. And there was no laughter.

Lord Culter watched them come. There was about him none of the mad abandon of the bridegroom. A sober, thickset figure with brown hair and reliable grey eyes, Richard Crawford in his thirties was a man of wealth and tried power. He waited, his face stony, and before Buccleuch opened his mouth, he spoke. "If it's about Lymond, don't trouble, Buccleuch." "It's about Lymond," said Sir Wat grimly, and let fly.

Gardington was made over to me once, by the Crown. It's one of their standard good-conduct prizes for espionage.' Philippa said, rather blankly, 'I thought you were spying at that time for Scotland.' 'Well, I wasn't spying for England,' Lymond said.

The door shut behind them all, and locked. The women stared at it, mesmerized, and observed across it the wavering shadow of an uncanny cloud. Behind the chamfered windows the sun was obscured by drifting wreaths of grey smoke, and the silence filled with the crackling of flames. The youngest surviving Crawford, in leaving, had deftly set fire to the castle.

He couldn't succeed Richard now, certainly," said Janet. "But if the English took over? Criminals at the horn with the right kind of politics have died in silk sheets before now." "So they say. Perhaps it's lucky then," said Sybilla, "that this criminal has cheated his way out of favour with every party in Europe.

Bunter!" "Yes, my lord." "Her Grace tells me that a respectable Battersea architect has discovered a dead man in his bath." "Indeed, my lord? That's very gratifying." "Very, Bunter. Your choice of words is unerring. I wish Eton and Balliol had done as much for me...

can I have the heart to fluster the flustered Thipps further—that's very difficult to say quickly—by appearing in a top-hat and frock-coat? I think not. Ten to one he will overlook my trousers and mistake me for the undertaker. A grey suit, I fancy, neat but not gaudy, with a hat to tone, suits my other self better. Exit the amateur of first editions; new motive introduced by solo bassoon; enter Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a walking gentleman.

WHAT IN THE WORLD, Wimsey, are you doing in this Morgue?" demanded Captain Fentiman, flinging aside the Evening Banner with the air of a man released from an irksome duty.

It's a curious thing, but people cannot resist anonymous letters. It's like free sample offers. They appeal to all one's lower instincts.

his thoughts revolving silently in this squirrel-cage of mystification.

Exactly. He is the Most Unlikely Person, and that is why Sherlock Holmes would suspect him at once.