As he said all this, de Marigny had lowered his voice, had positioned his head in close proximity to mine. I glanced to Jack, who was quietly rearranging his bottles behind the counter, and Jack, who had been watching us, looked away. I thought of the papers locked in my desk drawer on Cable Beach.

“Which bank?” I asked. “The one in Mexico?”

“Banco Continental, of course. Wenner-Gren’s outfit.”

I stubbed out my cigarette. “Fascinating. And also illegal, isn’t it? Moving your assets overseas in a time of war?”

“What does that matter to such men? But come. You’re not leaving?”

“I only stopped by for a little refreshment.”

He touched my hand. “We’re having a little dinner party tonight, Georges and me. You must join us.”

I opened my mouth to offer my regrets, to say I was otherwise engaged, but then I wasn’t, was I? Otherwise engaged. For all I knew, Thorpe was on his way back to London right now. For all I knew, I had seen my last of him. This idea—the loss of Thorpe—inserted itself at the top of my head, penetrating deeply, and then drew a slow gash right down the middle from skull to viscera, splitting me apart the way you might filet a trout.

I laid a few shillings on the counter and rose to my feet. “Why, how lovely of you to think of me, dear Freddie. Eight o’clock all right for you?”

He took my hand and kissed it. As he bent over my fingers, the light glinted on his hair.

“Eight o’clock is perfect.”

When I stepped back out into the simmering air, the first thing I saw was the Government House limousine sitting by the curb, Union Jack flags hanging limp from their tiny flagpoles above the headlights. The chauffeur stood against the wheel well, checking his watch. He saw me and straightened.

“Mrs. Randolph?”

“Indeed.”

“Her Royal Highness requests a moment of your time, if it’s convenient.”

I glanced at the rear window and back at the chauffeur, who stared back steadily, in the same way that Jack regarded me from behind his counter. The heat laid its oppressive hands against my cheeks, my chest. Already I felt my dress warming against my legs.

“You can put my bicycle in the back, I guess,” I said.

It’s a strange and rather empty sensation, riding in a limousine by yourself, a giant official limousine like the one that ferried the governor and his wife about the island. I thought of that Life magazine cover, the two of them in the drawing room I now knew so well, resting against those cushions I now knew so well.