Author's Note: Disclaimers in chapter one. And if anyone is wondering, the new character's name (Velocia Muliera) is pronounced "vehl-oh-chee-ah mu-lee-ehr-a". Veloce is Italian for 'fast', mulier is Latin for 'adult woman.' If anyone is wondering, as pointed out in a previous chapter, Melisande's last name comes from the Latin 'to ensnare', or in other words, 'to trap'. Mel in Greek and Latin means "honey." So everyone gets a Bond Girl name.

Also, there is some language-switching going on that's hard to replicate when of course I'm writing in English! For reference-I assume the Wulfenbach group is usually speaking German when they're in private (I'm also guessing from the comic and Wooster's rather sarcastic "dosvidanya" and the generals calling him "gospodin" that Dolokhov speaks Russian, but it's not the common language.) Melisande and Anya, when alone, speak Russian and French. In private, Melisande and Ardsley speak English. The common language of the guests and the staff is a mix of French and Italian.

Finally (yes, long note!), we'll be getting an occasional POV from another character, starting with the end of this chapter.

The warm night air of the Mediterranean was refreshing even without her actually having been overcome by the heat. Melisande kept leaning on Ardsley's shoulder as they crossed the gravel of the drive and moved down one of the stone paths in the garden. One never knew who was watching, after all, and she did not want Gil Wulfenbach, or that too-sharp-eyed construct with him, to pay much attention.

And of course it was heaven simply to have Ardsley holding her again. She was still not entirely certain this wasn't all a very surreal dream, but it certainly felt real enough. Especially the uneasy sense that he was, to put it mildly, very upset. The look on his face when he'd seen her, the tension she could still feel through his entire frame, the tight set to his jaw—he was, at minimum, not best pleased. From the speed with which he was moving down the garden path, she was going to find out why in short order.

Ardsley turned into what must have been one of the little private nooks the driver earlier had mentioned, a cul-de-sac of thick boxwood taller than even his head with a stone bench at the dead end. Releasing her arm (carefully; he clearly knew what sort of decorative elements would be on gloves his aunt made) he turned to face her, and the tense, angry look in his eyes almost frightened her. "Ardsley, I—"

He had her by the shoulders and was kissing her before she could finish the thought. Melisande was almost too startled to respond. Almost.

She'd forgotten how thoroughly he could kiss her when he had a mind to.

Minutes, hours later, she wasn't sure how long it had been, he seemed to remember they both had to breathe. Melisande sighed and rested her head against his shoulder as he settled them both on the bench, wishing the inevitable shop talk could be postponed indefinitely.

It couldn't, of course. "Melisande, love . . . ." He sighed, and pressed his face to her hair. "What are you doing here?"

Right now, she thought, breathing in the warm scent of him, being more content than I have been in months. He smelled of slightly-astringent soap, warm, clean wool, and just a trace of engine oil. "At the moment?"

His shoulders twitched as he stifled a laugh. "You know what I mean."

She sighed. Work before pleasure. "England did not receive an invitation to the Count's party. Moscow did. Lord M_ and Baba Anya decided that our agencies would cooperate, and considering my position, I was the logical choice to represent Her Majesty's interests." She looked up. "Lord M_ gave me the recognition code on the off chance he had to send help. We didn't think I'd have to use it with you. What are you doing here? We knew the Wulfenbachs very specifically were not on the guest list!"

"And that's stopped the Baron . . . when, precisely?" Ardsley raised an eyebrow. Melisande slapped his arm, not as hard as she could have. He made a show of rubbing it, but said "I think this is more about testing Gil than any real concerns about what Count Vercordi has planned."

"I'm not sure that's such a good way of thinking," Melisande said. "You know we were all brought here as potential buyers for something? And whatever it is, it's something he seems to think private interests and small governments without much in the way of Sparkish inventions will want. Hence England not being officially on the guest list."

"Isn't your cousin a Spark?"

"Not a very strong one." If she'd had any doubts about her personal loyalties, the ease with which that comment came to her certainly answered them. Of course, pressed close to her husband, with his arm around her waist and her head resting on his shoulder, she couldn't imagine considering any other allegiance. "Alexei is better at making mechanical toys than war machines. That's why they spend so much of their assets on espionage, and why the Baron, more or less, leaves the Duchy alone."

"They?" Ardsley twirled a loose lock of her hair around his finger.

She sighed and closed her eyes. "I'm English now. Or had you forgotten?"

He didn't reply, but pressed a kiss to her temple. "What did she offer you to come back?"

Of course he'd know. "My safety. James extracted from England." She heard the muffled snort of derision. "You brought in, if it was possible. Since I wouldn't tell her where you were, she didn't know how implausible that was. She does now." Melisande sighed. She was not privy to her godmother's method of communicating with Moscow on this trip, but she had little doubt whenever the report went, it would include the fact that Britain had an agent placed very, very close to the Baron. "And, of course I would see my parents again. I'm not even certain they know I have a son–I would think Baba Anya's told them, but . . . ." Something in her throat thickened, and she bit back the words.

"Oh, love." Ardsley held her quietly for a moment. "Such a life I've given you."

Guilt gnawed at her. "No! I wouldn't change it." Doubt, regret . . . any one of those could mean he was distracted at the wrong moment, let something slip, and everyone knew how the Wulfenbachs treated traitors and spies. "I admit, though, one reason I agreed to all this–leaving James, coming here, working with Baba Anya–is that if Uncle Oleg finds me useful, cooperative, he might decide despite everything it's not worth having me killed. Although I did kill his daughter."

"Only because she was a fool. And trying to kill us." Time, clearly, had not dulled any of Ardsley's anger at her late cousin Katia. "And she tortured you."

"You weren't even conscious for that part." Melisande, unfortunately, had been. It hadn't been until Ardsley had gone, and she'd been alone with time to think, that the nightmares of Katia and her knife had started. One of the advantages of James's typical infant insomnia had been they'd finally faded away. Sleep deprivation had its up side. "Katia was always rash. Maybe Uncle Oleg will remember that eventually, especially if I'm helpful. It would be nice for my parents to meet their son-in-law and grandson without the entire thing needing to be a stealth operation." Though considering their profession, that was not entirely as outlandish as it sounded . . . .

"Well, if he doesn't, at least infiltration is something we're both experienced at. James will just have to start young."

"Was that a joke?" Melisande opened her eyes, and in the pale glow of the fairy lights she could see the glint in her husband's eye. "Shame on you, teasing when I'm serious!" But despite her own acting skills, she couldn't hold down a giggle. "As always, long-term plans assume we'll live through the next few days. Besides our host, I suspect that will also depend on your employer. Is he still . . . he seemed rather sad just now."

Ardsley shook his head. "I don't know. I truly don't. Ever since he returned from Paris he's gotten more and more . . . withdrawn. Stressed. Unhappy. Anything anyone suggests, like visiting the students on the Castle, just makes him more unhappy. And by unhappy, I mean punitively so. I suppose it can't be easy, being the son of the tyrant of Europa, and it's true what he said–everything with his father's a test. If that's typical parenting, I think I've finally found an up side to being an orphan."

"Typical Spark parenting, perhaps. Though you didn't turn out so bad, considering your aunt."

"I'm not under the sort of pressure Gil is."

Melisande heard a faint alarm in the back of her mind. There was sympathy in Ardsley's tone, just a little too much, come to that. "You aren't . . . you remember he's not really your master, yes?"

"What?" Ardsley blinked, and then his expression darkened. "You don't think I'd actually forget why I'm here, do you? That I'm such a natural minion, I'd . . . ." He caught himself. "Sorry. It's just-"

"No, I didn't mean that," Melisande said, though that wasn't entirely true. "It's just . . . I know what it's like to sympathize too much with your target, that's all."

Ardsley chuckled. "I had noticed that. No, don't worry. Considering what his father would do to me if I blew my cover, it pays to remember that he's still the baron's madboy son. I just . . . I think he's lonely. For some reason, he won't talk to the friends he had before Paris, and it's not as if there are a plethora of options for new friends aboard the Castle. There's-well, he has me and Zoing, and of course I'm not really what he thinks, either. It must be terribly lonely, your only friend a lying spy and a construct who looks like a blue lobster."

Melisande considered that, and thought about the Gil she remembered from Paris and the Gil she had met tonight. "I suppose that's one advantage to being a Spark. At least he can build some friends out of spare parts."

There was a long pause. "You are joking, aren't you?" She looked up, and did her best wide-eyed innocent look, minus the batting eyelashes as that would probably be taking things a bit far. Ardsley gave her a narrow-eyed look, and she couldn't could stifle the giggle any longer. "Little minx! It's not funny. Especially when you're the one who has to dig up the construction materials!" But he was visibly biting down a laugh before he kissed her.
There was another, longer pause in the conversation as they tried to make up for lost time as much as was possible while clothed and in what was still, technically, public. It wasn't unlike Paris and afternoons in secluded corners of the Bois, except of course then they hadn't known exactly what they were missing.

Ardsley nuzzled the very sensitive spot at the crook of her neck and she shuddered. "I dream about this, you know," he murmured. "The scent of your hair. How your skin tastes. Some nights it's more than I can stand, knowing what I'm missing . . . ."

"I know exactly how you feel." How many nights had she lain awake, wondering if he was all right? The Pax Wulfenbach did mean the Castle was unlikely to be attacked from outside, but Gil, well-intentioned or no, was still a Spark, Sparks had labs, labs had accidents . . . and spies were caught. Spies were caught, and tortured, and executed. She'd known what would have happened to her if she'd carried out Uncle's original plan and entered England as an enemy agent—when she was caught, she'd have vanished to one of the Service's many little houses, some on the northern islands far away from other humans, with only seagulls and selkies to hear you scream or see you staggering in a truth-drugged stupor. Eventually they'd have tossed her body in the sea, or sent her back alive and broken beyond repair as a warning, unless she'd turned double for them. She'd grown up knowing that enemy agents sent to Siberia would not ever come back, and it would not be the cold that killed them. And most of all, she knew whatever Britain and the Duchy did to their enemies, what Baron Wulfenbach would do would be worse.

And, on a more practical level, there were things about having a husband that she missed terribly, and would even if she knew he was perfectly safe. Ardsley, clearly, felt the same way about missing his wife. Unfortunately, they'd been gone long enough as it was, and if she didn't put a stop to this now (no matter how much his eager hands and enthusiastic mouth might be making her ache) someone was likely to come looking. "Ardsley, dearest, much as I hate to stop—"

He groaned, but sat back. "Someone's going to wonder where we are."

"And I'm afraid it will be that awful construct your 'master' brought along." She wondered at what it had taken to add a second set of arms–who had even thought of doing something like that? What on Earth possessed a Spark to look at a perfectly normal human being and decide they had an insufficient number of limbs, might as well tack a few on?

"It's not his fault," and Ardsley did not sound especially thrilled to be defending the man. "The Baron overthrew the Spark that . . . altered Dolokhov. I don't know the details, but he didn't particularly ask to be made into what he is. Rumor has it when the Baron came, his principle job had been keeping his master's library and juggling. The Baron doesn't make him perform like a circus freak."

"That doesn't excuse his manners." She sniffed. "Suggesting they use you as a taster; I've half a mind to slip something into his food. I could do it, too, I do have a work kit along."

"Using work supplies for a personal vendetta? Very unprofessional of you, my love." Not that he hadn't considered it, more than once. "Please don't kill Boris. Or even just make him ill. He's unbearable enough as it is. I can't imagine what he'd be like if Gil had to bring him back from the dead."

"Oh, I wasn't serious." Mostly. "I don't think Lord M_ would view that as valid use of my best discretion and the Devonshire case aside I'm still a bit on probation there."

Ardsley nodded absently-he'd been looking down the hedge, obviously checking that the coast was clear–and then he looked back at her blankly. "Your best discretion?"

Damn, damn, damn . . . for a professional spy she was terrible at letting things slip, at least where Ardsley was concerned. "I told you about that mess with the Duke. They appreciated not requiring a public trial, and as Lord M_ put it, if I could manage that in my delicate condition, the situation could count as my two. You didn't think they'd send someone here who'd have to wait for orders if the situation requires someone's . . . removal?"

For a moment, she thought he was angry, until she saw the slightly wounded look below the furrowed brow. "After one mission? It took them three years to decide I was responsible enough for that level of discretion! One mission, at home no less, and you're licensed to kill?"

"There, there, dear," and she gave him a consoling (and as much as was possible with a kiss, sarcastic) peck on the cheek. "Remember, I did have prior experience. With you they were working from scratch."

"That's still . . . and besides, this sort of work is dangerous. It's not what I had in mind when you went to England."

"Going to try that whole 'I am your husband and you vowed to honor and obey me' line?" She arched an eyebrow. "I warn you, it works about as well as a Spark trying the old 'I am your master' argument."

"Actually, I was thinking of trying the 'I'm senior field agent on this operation and I'm telling you to stay out of danger' strategy, but as Lord M_ outranks both of us and sent you, that won't work either." Ardsley gave her what she knew was his best sideways glare. "You just wait until I'm home for good. We'll see what Lord M_ says then about you doing assassinations."

"When you are home for good, I will happily retire completely from field work." She knew they were supposed to be making their way back before someone noticed their lengthy absence (how she was going to explain her mussed hair was another matter) but she slid her arms around his neck anyway, pulling him down for a kiss. "As long as you're home," she murmured against his mouth.

"As soon as I'm possibly able." He held her as if, if only he held tightly enough, he could pause time and give them a few more minutes alone.

There was a crunching of steps on the gravel drive.

Melisande suppressed a very unladylike curse and took a discrete step back, smoothing her skirts and attempting to pat her hair back into some semblance of order. Maybe she could say she got it caught in a shrubbery. "If that is your friend Dolokhov I'm going to be even more put out than I already am."

"We'll just have to look very innocent and offended at the suggestion we're doing anything untoward." Ardsley adjusted his coat and vest, and Melisande reached up to straighten his collar. "Of course we're not. After all, what could be more proper than a married couple taking a quiet turn around the garden? That is, of course, if we could tell him that's all it is without his reporting me to his employer. And his head quite possibly exploding."

"As that would be messy and I only have two nice dresses for this whole trip, let's avoid that."

"Blood is difficult to clean out." He gave his waistcoat a final, studiously fussy tug, and offered her his arm. "I suppose we'd best find out. If you would permit me, Mademoiselle?"

"Why, thank you, kind sir." Once again, when she took his arm she pressed a little closer than was strictly necessary. It wasn't enough, but for now it was all she'd get. Still, she had the layout of the place memorized, and if there was a chance Ardsley would have a room to himself, a quiet room, one well away from prying eyes and too-sensitive ears . . . .

That or she'd just have to convince Baba Anya to spend a very late night at the gaming tables soon. She'd understand. If she didn't, Melisande could always bring up a certain young British agent named Bernard, and a certain mission in Vienna all those years ago. At the very least her godmother would be too embarrassed to argue the point further.

They rounded the corner to the main path and nearly collided with a woman. Melisande stumbled, and Ardsley almost didn't steady her, taking a step back himself as they both skidded on the stone path. "I beg your pardon–"

"Oh, no," and the woman had a low, rich voice with an accent that was probably local. "The fault is mine."

She was tall, with dark red hair swept into a sleek, unadorned chignon that immediately made Melisande even more conscious of her mussed updo. Instead of an evening gown, the other woman wore a variation on the Count's green and gold livery–a much more closely-tailored long coat over a gold dress. A very form-fitting gold dress. With a neckline Melisande was quite sure was being held up only by some sort of Sparkish intervention as no conventional dressmaker could possibly be that cunning.

The smile on those full lips was almost entirely directed at Ardsley. "I do apologize, but Count Vercordi was informed of the young lady's indisposition and he sent me to make certain she was all right. I can see she was in excellent hands." As she spoke, she twitched her shoulders back, straining the gold dress and credulity to the limit.

"Ah–yes, I was just–we're fine, thank you. I am sorry, I didn't mean to almost run you down, Miss . . . ?" Ardsley was doing far too good a job of acting stunned, though Melisande felt a faint squeeze of his hand on hers.

The redhead's smile broadened just a bit, but it still wasn't quite enough to touch her eyes. "Your pardon. I am Count Vercordi's assistant, Velocia Muliera."

"I'll just bet you are," Melisande murmured under her breath. Now she felt the point of an elbow.

Velocia either didn't understand or was under instructions to be polite to guests. "If you'd like, I can escort you both to dinner. I'm afraid you've missed the first course."

"I'm sure we can find our way back, Miss Muliera. I do thank you for your concern but I believe Miss La Capere is quite recovered now." Finally it registered–Ardsley was being English nearly to the point of incapacitation. Stilted, stammering, overapologizing and just a touch more formal than the situation demanded, it was a combination of traits guaranteed to drive those from less notoriously-formal countries straight up the nearest convenient wall. Which, in Melisande's experience, was precisely why they did it.

"We were simply renewing a prior acquaintance–old school friends, as it were, what?"

Of course there were times when they laid it on a bit too thick.

"Yes, very dear friends," she said, tightening her hold on his arm. She felt Ardsley twitch with what she suspected was a repressed laugh and that was somehow more annoying. "You may tell your master that I appreciate his concern but I am feeling much better now. it was simply the heat."

"He will be gratified to hear that." Smooth as silk, painfully polite, annoyingly reminiscent of her late cousin. "We would not wish for the Countess Dragomirov's guest to be indisposed. Now, if you will please?" She gestured back to the main entrance, and it was clear they were getting an escort whether they wanted one or not. Given how . . . closely-cut the dress and coat were, it was hard to believe the majordomo was hiding a weapon anywhere, but then how many people would have guessed Melisande had a climbing rope concealed on her wrist? Safer to cooperate.

Having Velocia at their back meant conversation was, more or less, at an end. Ardsley made some inane comment about the lovely garden, Melisande replied with something equally insipid about the lights, and the frustration was enough to give her heartburn. That or she just really was hungry. What she really wanted to comment on was how, instead of being lead, they were being driven, with the distinct sense the Count's lackey did not want them wandering off unsupervised. She made a note to do precisely that.

"What does our host have planned for us tomorrow, Miss Muliera?" Ardsley asked over his shoulder, giving them both an excuse to look back at their minder.

"Why, whatever our guests would like to do, of course." The smile was so perfectly sincere it had to be a lie. "There is of course the casino, the gardens, bathing in the sea, and while there are not too many places to ride, of course the Count's stables are at guests' disposal."

"Stables?" Melisande's ears perked up. "Real horses, not mechanical?"

"Certainly, if you wish." Velocia's beatific smile never wavered. "But if you prefer something more predictable than a living animal, we of course can accommodate-"

Melisande bristled. "I'm from Moscow. I can certainly ride a proper horse!" The tremor she felt shake Ardsley's whole body was for certain him choking down a laugh and she resisted the urge to kick him in the ankle.

Volecia's smile turned just the faintest bit superior. "Of course. If you wish to go riding, simply inform one of the staff and the stable will have a horse ready for you."

"That sounds lovely. I haven't been riding in ages." She smiled sweetly "Maybe if your master doesn't require your services all day, Ardsley dear, we could both go."

"I'll be sure to ask, but I'm afraid Master Gilgamesh can be quite . . . demanding of my time." Ardsley glanced down at her, and the regret in his eyes stabbed at her heart. She pressed his hand, subtle but firm.

"Yes," and for the first time there was something other satin-smooth politeness in Volecia's tone. "You must have been quite put out, having to pack for him on short notice. Did your master just decide to join us at the last minute?"

It was Ardsley's turn to smile with utter professional civility. "I'm afraid I don't know, Miss. I'm only his valet, and not privy to those sorts of things."

For one, beautiful instant, Volecia's facade cracked, just a hair, but the sheer annoyance glowed like a beacon. Then she was instantly back to the polished, smiling professional obsequiousness. "Of course. I didn't mean to pry."

Of course not. Melisande kept the dripping sarcasm to herself, though. "Still, even a slave-driving employer has to allow some time off? It's such a lovely island, it would be a shame to spend all your time picking up after Gilgamesh Wulfenbach."

"That is my job, I'm afraid." She heard the wistful note, though, and only Volecia's presence kept her from reminding him that even Sparks had to sleep at some point.

Inside, the banquet hall was as lavish and aglow with lights as the rest of Count Vercordi's domain. Their guide stopped at the entrance, and Melisande noted how the gold dress and the green jacket's gold trim glittered in the lights. Had the colors been chosen to compliment the lights, or the other way around? It depended, she supposed, on whether the Count valued gold or illusion more. The room was set with two long tables, parallel to each other, and no head table or anyone seated at the head or feet. Once again, there was no sign of their host, but more of the liveried staff were moving among the guests, serving what appeared to be the fish course.

"You're seated by the Countess, Mademoiselle La Capere," Volecia said, gesturing. "And your master at the top of the far table, Monsieur." Apparently, mere valets didn't rate assistants remembering their names. She still gave him the sort of stunning smile that somehow managed to draw a male onlooker's eyes to that spectacular neckline.

This time Melisande did place her heel, lightly, on Ardsley's instep. He got the point and coughed, looking away. "Thank you, Miss Muliera. I'll just escort Miss La Capere to her seat."

"Yes, thank you for all your help. That will be all, though. We can find our way from here." Melisande used the most crisp, dismissive, speaking-to-the-servants tone she could muster, the sort most nobles at home reserved for the kind of serfs who cleaned the latrines. If she'd taken that tone with Hudson, she had little doubt their 'butler' would have slapped her silly.

Just as Volecia Muliera looked like she wanted to.

The redhead swallowed the rage, and gave them another perfect smile. "Enjoy your dinner," and she stepped aside.

Ardsley guided Melisande down the table towards the empty seat besides Baba Anya. "Was the tone really necessary, darling?" He spoke in Romany, one language they had in common few of the guests were likely to know even if they overheard the clenched-teeth whisper.

"She was flirting with you," Melisande replied in kind. "I do have to defend my territory."

"No, lover," he murmured, stopping as they reached the empty seat, "you have nothing to worry about at all." He switched back to the lingua franca of the room and pulled out her chair for her . "I am glad you're feeling better, Mademoiselle. I do hope I will see more of you while we're here."

"Thank you, Ardsley. I'm very sure you will." And she looked up from beneath lowered lashes and smiled.

From the look in his eyes as her meaning registered, she had nothing to worry about from the flirting Miss Muliera after all. At least, not where he was concerned.

Ardsley bowed politely, and then nodded to Baba Anya. "Countess."

"Thank you for your assistance to my niece," she said. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

"I only wish it were under different circumstances, madame." He had certainly perfected the slightly servile voice and the bow. "Excuse me, please, I must see to Master Gilgamesh."

Melisande sighed as he walked away, and then glanced down at her plate. "Sea bass?"

"You missed the soup course," and she suspected the slight admonition in her godmother's voice was real. "I do hope you're feeling better?"

"Quite. The heat was uncomfortable, but I'm better now." Instead of picking at her meal, she looked, as casually as possible, at their fellow diners. Most of the baccarat players appeared to be at their table, and the so-called "American", Sir William. Across from her she recognized the sharp-eyed brunette who'd been standing behind the Roman, but noticed he was conspicuous by his absence. "Your . . . companion is not dining with us, Madame . . . ."

"Valentine," the woman said, "Madame Valentine. And no, my husband is, like yourself, finding the climate not to his taste this evening. He'll dine later, I'm sure." She fingered the ruby choker at her throat. "He did beg everyone's pardon, but he went to take a turn outside. You can appreciate that."

"Yes." There was something about that Melisande did not like–not having seen this Valentine anywhere outside, for a start, but then she had been unprofessionally distracted. And, as she'd already attracted enough attention tonight, it wasn't a line of questioning she could politely pursue. For now. "Tell me, Sir William," she said, in her best brightly vapid tone, bracing herself for the sort of dinner conversation she hadn't endured in well over a year now, "what brings you to the Count's lovely retreat?"

At the opposite end of the dining room, Boris Dolokhov was enjoying a halfway-decent piece of fish and a very decent sulk. He did not, as a general rule, indulge in sulking, but to say he found the company, the circumstances and the entire plan, such as it was, thoroughly unpleasant would be a minor understatement. Surely the Baron could have had found someone, anyone, more suitable to . . . child-minding than him.

Not, of course, that Gilgamesh Wulfenbach was a child. He glanced surreptitiously at the 'young master', who was having the sort of perfectly civil dinner conversation with the Lady Oyone that no one ever expected from a Wulfenbach. Really, did they think all Sparks were not only occasionally mad but uncivilized? That the Baron enforced order and law out of some perverse desire to behave like a monster himself? True, he could be cruel, but never unfairly so, and his son was expected to behave as a proper future leader of Europa, assuming as always he didn't create some sort of self-destructive monster in his lab that destroyed him before that happened. If it did, of course, there might be enough parts left that it wouldn't be a total loss.

A figure entered the corner of Boris's vision and he grimaced. Maybe a reconstructed Gil could be given better taste in hangers-on.

The English valet stopped at Gil's elbow and made a polite bow. Very good at being polite, that one, polite and obsequious and with just something faintly wrong about the whole business. "I apologize for being gone so long sir, but Mademoiselle La Capere is recovered now. Was there anything you required?"

Gil gave Wooster a deceptively quick glance. "And her recovery somehow resulted in your top button coming undone?"

The English were such a pale people, Boris thought, it really made it far too evident when they were embarrassed. "Just . . . I'm sure I only caught it on something, sir," he said, fumbling at it. "I do apologize–"

"I'm teasing, Wooster." That sigh was far too regretful to suit a Wulfenbach. "Sit down and eat."

"That really wouldn't be appropriate, sir–"

"I say it is. Sit."

Boris shuddered in spite of himself. There were times when the boy did sound more than a bit like his father. Clearly, the valet heard the tone just as clearly and he sat in the chair indicated, though he glanced in what he probably thought was a surreptitious way back across the room. From his own seat, Boris could only see the back of the Russian girl's head, but he noted her hair combs were positioned differently than they had been before she'd been "taken ill" and the her hair in general seemed somehow messier. Sometimes an eidetic memory came in handy in ways both unusual and rather unsettling. It often, he reflected as he glanced at the annoying Englishman (who was studiously avoiding meeting anyone's gaze but who, like his lady friend, looked somehow more . . . mussed than he had earlier), meant he remembered things and drew conclusions that he really would rather not.

If tonight was anything to go by, this was going to be a painfully long stay.