The serving girl stood looking up at Jocelyn. “I must be at least half an hour late by now,” she said. “All because of you and your foolish quarreling and more than foolish dueling.” Jocelyn reached for one of the pockets of his coat, only to be reminded that he was still wearing just his shirt and breeches and top boots. “Conan,” he said testily, “oblige me by finding a sovereign in my coat pocket and tossing it to this wench, will you? It will more than compensate her for the loss of half an hour’s wages.” But she had turned on her heel and was striding away over the grass, her back
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