“Keep still!” I instructed as she suddenly rolled about, chortling with exaggerated glee; the child was as heavy and ungainly as a calf. “Look, give her back; I can’t talk to you while I’m worrying—”

Helena gripped her, sat her upright, dried her face again (identifying for herself the cloth I kept for this task) while competently straightening her earrings as she continued to do business with me. “She’s no trouble. There’s no need to talk; Falco, you talk too much.”

“My papa’s an auctioneer.”

“I can believe that! Just stop worrying.” I sealed my lips in a bitter line. For a moment she seemed to have finished, then she confessed, “Falco, I’ve tried to see Pertinax.” I said nothing, since what I would have said was unfit for her respectable shell-like ears. The spectre of another girl in white, lying still at my feet, was strangling me. “I went to the house. I suppose I wanted to confront him. He was not there—”

“Helena—” I protested.

“I know; I should never have gone,” she muttered swiftly.

“Lady, never walk in alone on a man to inform him he’s a criminal! He knows that. He’s likely to prove it by coming at you with the first weapon to hand. Did you tell anybody where you were going?”

“He was my husband; I wasn’t afraid—”

“You should have been!”

Quite suddenly her tone melted: “And now you are afraid for me! Truly, I’m sorry.” A sick shiver ran round me under my belt. “I wanted to take you—”

“I would have come.”

“Provided I asked you properly?” she teased.

“If I see you in that kind of trouble,” I said tersely, “you won’t have to ask.”

Her eyes widened, with a look of surprise and shock.

I drank my milk.

I was settling down again. Marcia lolled her tousled head against Helena’s handsome bosom, watching us. I watched the child—well that was my excuse—as Helena cajoled me, “Will you come tonight? It’s a free dinner, Falco! One of your employers has rushed from abroad to meet you. You know you’re too inquisitive to let that pass.”

“Employers plural?”

She said there were two—possibly three, though probably not. I tried suggesting two meant double rates but she retorted: “Your rates are what my father agreed! Wear a toga; bring your dinner napkin. You might consider investing in a shave. And please, Falco, try not to embarrass me…”

“No need, lady—you embarrass yourself. Give me back my niece!” I snarled venomously; so at last she did.