“I’m afraid I have something of a reputation.” There was a note of apology in his voice.

“I’ll say. If you believe all the stories.”

“Do you believe the stories?”

“Naturally. I’ll bet they’re a hundred times more interesting than the truth. Thanks for the drink, by the by.”

He lifted his eyebrows and signaled to Jack. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say I wanted another.”

“Didn’t you? But please, Mrs. Randolph, sit down. We cannot have you standing like that. We cannot have you leaving like this.”

“Why not?” I asked. But I sat down.

He sat too, facing me, elbow propped on the bar. “What is this you are saying, about giving up? Give up on what?”

I reached into my pocketbook for the cigarette case. You know, something for my hands to do, something to occupy my attention while the most notorious playboy in Nassau settled himself on a nearby stool and fixed his attention on me. I tried to assemble a few facts in my memory. He was recently divorced from some wealthy Manhattanite who had left her previous husband for him. He was a yachtsman, a good one. A foreigner with a title of some kind, which nobody knew how he acquired, or whether it really belonged to him. In short, he was a—what was the word I had overheard? A mountebank. Fine ten-dollar word, mountebank. I plucked a cigarette and said, “Did I say that?”

“You did. I’m certain of it. Allow me.” He removed a matchbook from his pocket and lit me up in a series of deft movements: selecting the match, striking flame, holding it just to the end of the cigarette, so that the blue core touched the paper in a tiny explosion.

“Thank you.” I opened the case again and offered him the contents. He chose one and thanked me in turn. As we completed these little rituals, Jack returned with a pair of drinks: another martini for me, a whiskey for de Marigny.

When we had both tasted the waters, he said, “I hope I have not offended. I only wish to know if I might be of some assistance.”

“Out of the kindness of your heart?”

He pressed his hand against his chest. “I am a gentleman, Mrs. Randolph. I ask nothing in return.”

“Sure you don’t. Not that I hold it against you, mind you. It’s what makes the world go round.”

“What makes the world go round?”

“Favors.” I reached for the ashtray. “To answer your question, I’m a journalist. I’ve been sent here by an American magazine to give our readers an inside view of Nassau society in these interesting times.”

“By Nassau society, do you perhaps mean the duke and his wife?”

“Well. That is what’s interesting about it, after all.”