Fleur came over all unnecessary and fiddled with a napkin. They were her best, inherited from her mother—old heavy linen, cut as large as tea towels. The Rose leaned across the refectory table and squeezed Fleur’s hand. “Enough of that. Tell me the gossip. Who’s coming this evening?”

“Well, there’s one absentee already, I’m afraid—tennis player, smart cookie, rang to say she couldn’t make it. Her girlfriend’s coming, though. Supposed to be a delight. Then there’s Miranda and Nick. They’re nice. He’s wealthy, powerful. She’s a mouthful—a bit wicked. They’re sort of on the lookout, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“Then there is an old chum of mine, Zeno, and his wife. She used to be ravishing. Quiet, though—haven’t seen her for a while. He’s interesting—you might get on with him. And then there’s my date.”

“And what’s he like?” asked the Rose, pointing a steady finger at Fleur. “Is he going to be inspecting my handiwork first-hand?”

“Oooh, I wish. But tell me about yours first.”

“Okay.” The Rose paused a moment, considering how to adjust from surgeon to confidant.

“I belong to this club near Berkeley Square. And when I stopped drinking and started swimming, I saw all these interesting chaps reporting to the fencing academy—same level as the pool, you see. So I joined up. Rather good at it, as it turned out, or so the swordmaster said. Natural eye-arm coordination, I suppose. That’s how I met him—fenced at the club where he trains.”

“So what’s he like?”

“Gorgeous. In the films, I believe. And he has a tattoo.”

“Oooh, I like tattoos.”

“You must ask him to show you. I haven’t seen it myself, yet, only heard about it.”

Fleur smiled sympathetically. “Let’s hope tonight’s our lucky night.”

The Rose held up his glass in a mock toast. “I’ll drink to that,” he said. “Now tell me about Mister . . .”

He was about to say “Right”, when the doorbell chimed and Fleur went to let in the first of her guests. When they came through to the garden, they were already holding glasses of champagne. The woman was saying to Fleur that she would have only one glass, as champagne made her breath smell. The man acknowledged the Rose with a vague smile, and appeared to be waiting for his companion to finish speaking. The Rose assessed the couple. The woman was taller than the man, and wore a short tube of a dress, simple and black. Her hair was up, twisted into a bun, giving full expression to her neck. And the face. More handsome than beautiful; the mouth was wide, but also deep, like a walnut. The hands were slender, the nails finely shaped. Every feature that could give sensual pleasure was aesthetically appropriate.