Hercule nodded to Henry, their black-coated waiter, a stiff-necked old geezer who was as much a fixture at the Belamy Club as Claude. Henry placed a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice in front of him, and beside it a bottle of François Montand Sparkling Brut, the Belamy sommelier Pierre Montreux’s choice, Hercule knew, of the best champagne for a mimosa.

Henry himself mixed the mimosas, bowed, left their table to fulfill their order of croissants and espresso.

Elizabeth clicked her glass to his. “To an excellent performance last night. You controlled the interview, left Atterley looking rather like a landed trout expelling gas.”

It always amazed him how many euphemisms Lady Elizabeth and her kind could dish up. Never a basic Anglo-Saxon word that fit the bill for Elizabeth, far too common, except for her sex words when she hurtled into orgasm. He knew she was the product of weekends skiing in the Alps, vacations in Saint-Tropez, and a renowned Swiss finishing school. What she’d finished, she’d never said. But in this instance, about that ass Atterley, she was right. He smiled. “He is a smart man who has come to believe his own press. I saw your father this morning on my way here.”

“You saw my father?” No doubt she was anxious to hear what her old man had said to him. It was subtle, but he heard the whiff of alarm in her well-modulated voice.

“I was visiting my banker this morning when Lord Thomas happened to come down from his office to congratulate me on the Atterley interview. He informed me I’d been succinct and astute, that my sympathetic attitude toward Muslims had stirred your mother. Then, he gave me this look, and I knew he thought both your mother and I were fools.”

“That’s quite amazing,” Elizabeth said, and took another sip of her mimosa. “I can’t recall my mother ever being stirred by anything—well, maybe a bit for Tommy.”

Her younger brother, the earl’s heir, was last year, on his thirtieth birthday, cut off without a sou. It was proper of the old earl, Hercule thought. Tommy was a useless git with a cocaine habit his doting sister, Elizabeth, could barely keep up with. If he were Lord Thomas, he’d have long ago drowned the little wanker in the Thames.

“Have you ever thought about arranging for a job for your brother, at one of the big banks in Italy, say?”

“Yes, right, certainly. Tommy would insist on traveling first class all the way, he would expect his address to be a suite in the Hassler, and to eat his meals at Alfredo’s. And within the month he’d be back broke, and on his heels a dozen people extraordinarily upset with him, some of them, doubtless, with guns.”

Her occasional show of wit pleased him. He felt a tug of liking for her, a touch of pain for what was about to happen to her. He looked at his watch. “I have an hour, Elizabeth. I have meetings and a graduate seminar this afternoon.”

“There’s Henry bringing our croissants and espresso.”

While Henry meticulously laid out their light midmorning breakfast, Hercule took another sip of his mimosa. It really was excellent. “You and your father are attending one of your friend’s weddings this afternoon, aren’t you?”

She smiled at that. “Yes, I’m one of her bridesmaids, six in all. The bride’s family—you know the Colstraps, don’t you? Lord Palister? He runs the Rothschild banks in London?”

“I’ve met him.” Not really, but Hercule had seen him across the roulette wheel, surrounded by his drinking buddies, at one of London’s private casinos. Florid and pompous, that’s what Hercule had thought, looking at him.

“Ellie and I went to school together in Geneva. The man she’s marrying, Ryan Gray-Murcheson, I don’t think he deserves her. He gambles, you see, too much, like her father.” She leaned toward him, lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ve heard it said Ryan’s father is a criminal, but his family is old and respected and he’s rich as Croesus, so everyone talks about him behind their hands. Do you know anything about him?”

“I? How curious you’d ask me, a professor of economics. I’ve heard his name, is all.”

Obviously she didn’t care one way or the other. She spoke the moment he finished. “Ah, but trust Ellie’s father, Lord Palister, to provide her with a spectacular wedding; it will be the event of the season.” She shrugged. “We’ll see how the marriage turns out. Ellie wants kids.” She took a bite of her croissant. “Delicious, as usual. Will you accompany me to Lady Brecknell’s card party tomorrow evening, Samir?”

“I would be delighted. Didn’t you tell me Lord Harlow and Major Hornsby would be there?” His voice was light, only mildly interested. She couldn’t know that Lord Harlow, actually an associate of the groom’s father, was a kingpin in London’s criminal underworld, far removed from the daily grind, to be sure, but he had a number of very rich, very determined enemies. It was hard to get to him. He wasn’t stupid and was very well protected. But in two hours, when Elizabeth stood at the altar beside her friend and her parents were doubtlessly seated near Lord Harlow, it would all end.