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toward the side. And halted.
    Todd stood there.
    Todd, tall, handsome, with a haircut that cost as much as a small car and a suit that cost more than the budget of a third-world country. Todd, the wealthy. Todd, the worthless.
    What burned Samuel was that, as far as Mrs. Mason was concerned, Todd would be an appropriate mate for Isabelle. Todd was heir to a fortune, but more than that, Todd had no rough edges. He was a suave, useless George Clooney, just the kind of man Patricia Mason could successfully manipulate into doing her bidding.
    Now Todd stood indolently, a glass of port held between manicured fingers, surveying the ballroom from the steps leading up to the cloakroom.
    Samuel joined him, alive with malice. “Lose something?”
    “My grandmother. She’s probably huddled in some corner, snoring with her mouth open.” Todd sounded absolutely disgusted, although whether with his grandmother or with the fact that Samuel spoke to him, Samuel did not know.
    “It’s very late for a woman of her age.” Samuel made a show of checking his watch.
    “That’s for sure. I don’t know why she insists on coming to these functions.”
    “Because she likes to get out occasionally?”
    “But it’s not pleasant to see her.” Todd spoke smoothly, warmly, as if he weren’t being absolutely offensive. “She’s so bent and saggy, clothes aren’t attractive on her, and don’t even ask about the time wasted getting her into a coat and into the car, then out of the car and out of the coat; then she’s not at the party for an hour before she’s whining that she’s tired and wants to go home.”
    Samuel smiled and nodded as if he were sympathetic. He had always had a natural talent for acting. “I did see her not long ago make her way toward the library with that gentleman . . . I can’t remember his name. You know, the distinguished gentleman with the gray hair, the one who romances wealthy women and marries them?”
    For the first time, Todd faced Samuel. “That Czech? That phony nobleman? Count Ladislav Kucera?”
    Samuel shrugged with elaborate casualness.
    “That perfidious bastard.” Outrage vibrated in Todd’s voice. “The library, you say?”
    “Well, down the corridor toward the library. They could be anywhere.” Samuel spread his hands in a display of innocence. “By now, they could be in the bedrooms.”
    Todd took off like a shot down the stairs, across the ballroom, toward the family rooms.
    Samuel watched, satisfied that Todd would not enjoy the rest of his evening. He was going to be too busy searching for Lady Winstead.
    Samuel’s gaze returned to Isabelle. And Ambassador Moreau.
    He started down the stairs. To speak to Isabelle. To rescue her from Moreau. Before Moreau leered himself into a major ass kicking.
    But before Samuel took more than two steps, a Frenchman’s low, urgent voice caught his attention.
    It said, “What do you mean, you had to injure le petit garçon ?”
    Someone had hurt a little boy.
    “The kid wouldn’t stop fighting.” The voice was young, male, surly. And American. Very American.
    Samuel stood absolutely still, listening, trying to pinpoint the source of the muffled voices.
    “How badly did you hurt him?”
    No answer.
    Something thumped against the wall of the cloakroom. “How badly?”
    “When I left, he was clutching his chest and bitching about the pain.” The American sounded as if he’d been what thumped against the wall.
    “Merde , Bull! You are the dumbest imbécile I ever worked with!”
    Samuel eased himself closer to the open door, slid behind a ficus, and prepared to listen.
    “His arm is a little broken,” Bull said.
    “I told you not to hurt the merchandise.” The Frenchman sounded furious. “Do you want to explain to the boss why we can’t collect the ransom?”
    “The boss can’t be that tough.” Bull was cross.
    The slam this time shook the wall by Samuel’s head.
    “The boss will dine on your beating heart.”
    Who are these