The car roared off. I slowed my steps to hang back, conscious that I had no companion, no escort, no friend of any kind. I was alone, as usual, and when you’re alone you must time your entrance carefully, you must carry yourself a certain way, you must manage every detail so nobody suspects your weakness. A fellow in a uniform stood just outside the door, exchanging words with Oakes, who continued to pat his pockets in that absentminded way, while I crossed the drive at a measured pace, presenting my hips just so. As I reached the portico, I heard an oath. It was delivered, needless to say, in a plain, rough, American kind of voice, and I froze, a few yards away. I’d heard he was a flinty fellow, Sir Harry Oakes, that he had a hot temper and small patience—no wonder he’d married late in life, when he was already rich—and here’s what I’d learned about men of temperament: stay the hell away, if you can help it.

But Oakes spun around and spotted me. In the course of patting his pockets, he’d discovered the same card I carried in my hand. He brandished it now. “In the gardens!” he bellowed. “The goddamn west entrance!”

“The west entrance?”

“Follow me.”

He stumped off—there’s no other way to describe it, as if he wore an invisible pair of iron boots—and I scrambled after him, because when the richest man in the British Empire tells you to follow him, you take your chances and follow, temperament be damned.

“Leonora Randolph,” I ventured, when I reached his shoulder.

He stopped and spun again. He couldn’t seem to turn like an ordinary man, but then he wasn’t ordinary, was he? He stuck out his hand. “Oakes,” he said, because of course there needed no further introduction.

I took the hand and shook it briskly. “I figured.”

Well, he laughed at that. We resumed walking, at a more amicable pace, and Oakes said, “Where do you come from, Miss Randolph?”

“Mrs. Randolph. I’m from New York City, mostly. I came down to Nassau a few weeks ago for a change of pace.”

“Change of pace, eh? I guess you’ve got your money’s worth.”

“I’ll say.”

“Your husband come with you?”

“My husband’s dead, Sir Harry.”

“I see.”—stomp, stomp—“Awfully sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was a louse.”

“A louse, eh? The lazy kind, or the drinking kind?”

“Take your pick.”

“Did he beat you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say beat.”

Oakes grunted. “Good riddance to the bastard, then. Why Nassau?”

“Why not Nassau?”

“The heat, for one thing. It’s goddamn July. My wife and kids left for Bar Harbor two months ago.”

“I don’t mind the heat at all, Sir Harry. Heaven knows it’s better than the cold.”