“And they hate you,” I said. “Because what’s not to hate?”

“The Lancasters and the Yorks were chummier.”

“A cold war. You stick the shivs in by proxy.”

“Formality and the bottom line, don’t you know? Family delegations will have tea and crumpets tomorrow and attend a state dinner next week. Fake smiles and dagger eyes. Security sweeps for bugs and bombs prior to and after every event.”

“Society page had you in Italy.”

“Change of plans. I bore easily. Meg mentioned she was throwing a little holiday shindig—”

“Meg invited you for dinner?” Delia had frequented Meg’s library for years, so they were on friendly terms. I lifted a drape and surveyed the empty yard. Delia’s ubiquitous security detail wasn’t currently in evidence. The vanload of Black Dog mercs likely parked up the street and around a corner. “No troglodytes in tow?”

“Just you, big boy.”

Lionel heard our voices and came to greet her.

“Oh, my God! Sweetie! What have they done to my beautiful man?” She flung her arms and legs around him. His knots and bruises were receding; that didn’t mean he looked good. “Does your face hurt, baby? Because it’s killing me!” She burst into laughter, then apologized and kissed him passionately. Their reciprocal affection was veering into R-rated territory, so I cleared my throat.

Delia extricated herself from his one-armed embrace, touched his chin, and whisked onward to rendezvous with Meg in the kitchen.

“You’re a halfway cute couple,” I said. “She’s the cute half.”

“I’m so dead.” He gazed after her with an expression of mournful epiphany. “This can never work.”

“Because she’s rich and hot and you’re super-duper not?”

He rubbed his jaw and blinked as if shaking off a daydream.

“For a hundred and one reasons. Take your pick. Damn it.”

Unprepared to handle the intensity of fear and melancholy radiating from him, I chucked him on his shoulder.

“Buck up. Bad form to throw in the towel until after dessert. Oh, oh, tell her about the car wreck—I mean chase. She’ll go gaga with a contact high. Got to be good for one or two rolls in the hay.”

“Who says ‘roll in the hay’?”

“Your mom. C’mon.”

Dinner was leftovers. Not surprising, since I’d been barely able to shove the fridge door closed after storing the remnants of our Christmas feast. Delia perched between Lionel and Devlin. The boys were patently smitten. Devlin shyly asked if she was a movie star. Why did he ask? She looked like a movie star! Delia explained that she sang and danced and had even acted in a few commercials. Close enough for him. Meg fought a long insurgency to pry the kid away after dinner and nip off to bed. Thankfully, he missed Lionel’s downing the last of a fifth of rye and subsequent editorial on colonialism. Instead of relying on charm, he amped his yahoo, self-destructive inclination to eleven.

“White man is the enemy!” he said, demonstrating simultaneously the truth of that statement and also the axiom that we are our own worst enemies.