Title: The Smarter Set
Author: LizBee
Summary:  Russell survives the social season with less grace than endurance.
Warnings: Erm.  
Fandom: Mary Russell (Sherlock Holmes).  With bonus Lord Peter.
Spoilers: European history of the 1930s.  And JUST.
Disclaimer: Russell is the property of Laurie R. King. Holmes is public domain, although it's probably only fair to name-check Arthur Conan Doyle.  Lord Peter is currently in the hands of the Sayers Estate, poor thing.
Notes: Thanks as always to Branwyn, aka Cesario.   This, as usual, is linked to most of my other fic.  Shove it in the early mid-thirties somewhere.  *handwave*  Written for the letters_of_mary flashfic challenge.



The Smarter Set
by LizBee




Russell found Holmes in the billiards room, disdaining the other guests – and, for the most part, the game – in favour of sharing hair-raising stories with Lord Peter.  Both men looked up at her entrance.  She favoured Peter with a demure smile, which appeared to fool him not a whit, took Holmes by the arm and led him a few steps towards the corner.

"Tell me, husband, would you give me an alibi if I murdered Herr Vetter?"

Holmes cocked one eyebrow and drawled, "I hope you wouldn't be careless enough to get caught."

"Good point.  When Vetter drops dead, do try to look surprised."

Peter lay down his cue, took up his drink and said, "Is it to be arsenic in the library, Mary, or an unladylike bash to the head?"

"Best not to ask."  Russell appropriated Holmes's drink and added, "arsenic has a certain traditional quality.  Do you suppose Bunter would be able to procure some, if I asked nicely?"

"When you are hanged," said Holmes, "I shall have to find some suitable lie to tell your son, and pray that this criminal abnormality is not hereditary.  May I ask what Vetter has done to offend you?"

"Good Lord, Holmes," said Peter, "you must be slipping if you can't deduce the root of the problem.  It's almost--"

"Don't say it," Russell warned.

"—Transparent," Peter finished with a flourish.  

"I had hoped it was something more subtle than politics."  Holmes gave Russell a look of reproof, laced with true concern.  "The man is a German; one shouldn't be surprised if he is also a Hitlerite.  You should have deduced from his preferred reading material that he has neither taste nor common sense."

"I'd have settled for manners."  Russell sank into a chair, heedless of her silk gown.  "I saw Phillida turn grey when the conversation turned to politics, and she flinched every time Vetter opened his mouth."  She drained Holmes's glass and added, "it was small consolation."

"And the Duchess?" asked Peter.

"Fled to the conservatory, as any sensible woman would do."  Russell adjusted her jewellery, tucked a stray curl of hair into place, considered and rejected stealing Peter's drink as well, and stood up.  "And if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I shall join her.  If one cannot rely on Helen Beauville for a sensible conversation, one may as well give up on life now."

She swept out, daring either of them to make a comment in her wake.

Neither did.


end