It became a pattern, a repeated blow on the same bruise. Dunbar would offer some innocent opinion, and Zelle would casually tear him apart. As the evening wore on and the silence grew increasingly oppressive, it seemed that even the waiters became uneasy, hesitating in the wings with another bottle for that famous scandalous dancer.

It was midnight when her party finally deteriorated. Dunbar had been sent to find a taxi, while Zelle retired to a balcony. From here there was a broad view of the river across the rooftops, and mounting rain clouds on the horizon.

Gray approached slowly without speaking. Zelle did not turn around. Her hair hung freely at her shoulders; and although her eyes were still clear, he sensed the exhaustion in her voice.

“I can't imagine any place as beautiful as this,” she told him.

He stepped a little closer until their hands were nearly touching on the railing. "But then you've never seen England, have you?"

She tossed back her head. "Oh, so that's it. You've come on behalf of Charles."

"You did appoint me his guardian."

"That was a temporary measure. He's on his own now."

"But hardly succeeding."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He glanced away, shoving his hands in his pockets. Three stories below another lost soul seemed to be searching for a cab.

"Do you love him at all, Margaretha?"

"Really, Nicky."

"Do you?"

"Of course."

"Then why do you treat him like some bloody poodle?"

He expected a burst of sardonic laughter, but instead she merely wet her lips, suddenly like that child again. Her voice was also very soft. "He's all right, Nicky. Honestly he is. It's just that . . . well, sometimes things get out of hand."

"Then send him back to England. Cut him loose and send him home."

She smiled, "You sound like a priest, a jealous priest. And they're the worst kind, fanatic with unseen motives."

"Send him home, Margaretha."

"But I love him, really I do—"

"No, you don't."

He had her to himself only once more that night—a few parting words in a courtyard stinking from ruptured sewers. Dunbar had been told to wait in the carriage. It was very quiet.

"Don't talk about Charles," she said. "There's no need."

She had placed her hand on his shoulder, an absent gesture.

"Margaretha—"

"No, listen. Charles and I have an understanding, so you see it's really all right. I mean it's all quite harmless. Nicky, don't look at me that way. I'm telling you the truth—it's harmless."

And no doubt she even believed it.