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predict it. I'm a businessman, not a prophet. But as a businessman—" He paused.
    "I'm always eager to hear your views on business, sir."
    "Well, then, as a man of business I can give you a fair idea of what ships are scheduled to cross the Mediterranean. Always allowing, of course, for the complications of this unfortunate unpleasantness on the continent. With good information and a little patience, I expect we can manage to be on the spot when that particular ship comes in."
    "The information I leave, as always, to you. As to patience—only point me to the port, Henry, and I shall wait there, patiently as Job, though it take a twelvemonth."
    ***
    Was it not enough that he'd done three years' penance in vile climates among villains whose treacheries made his own attempted "crime" a mere boyish prank by comparison? Was it not enough he'd been nearly murdered some dozen tunes? Apparently, the Furies were not done tormenting him. He must now spend all his waking hours with one of the most desirable women he'd ever met—and have to keep his hands to himself the whole blessed time.
    The Devil himself must have fashioned her to make men demented. Small wonder that Dhimitri, perceiving Mr. Burnham's profound and incomprehensible want of interest, had tried to carry her off. Even the jaded Mr. Trevelyan would like to carry her off to some private place.
    The Devil, surely, had designed her long-legged slenderness, so exquisitely curved, and woven her dark chestnut curls to glint copper in the bright sun. He'd sculpted the soft, full lips; and then, for Old Nick hadn't any conscience at all, he'd drawn those startling green eyes with their flecks of gold like speckled sunlight in a cool forest. Nor was that yet enough. She must move with sensuous, provocative grace and speak in that husky, intimate timbre. Even her unfashionably tanned s kin must seem the palest golden silk, rising to a warm rose in her cheeks. All that, and Basil could do no more than look.
    For one, she was the daughter of a gentleman. For another, she was obviously innocent; and for a third—and this carried by far the greatest weight—she was Aunt Clem's goddaughter. He wouldn't even have to compromise Miss Ashmore to be forced into marriage. She had only to become infatuated with him and confide it to Aunt Clem, and his bachelor days would be over. He needed to repeat this lecture to himself often as the days passed, for she made him very...restless.
    Basil was not used to resisting temptation of any kind. When in his life had he lusted in vain? But then, when had he ever lusted after a gently bred virgin? Never. His problem was simply that he'd been too long without feminine companionship and wasn't used to controlling himself.
    Still, they must keep up a show for the Argus-eyed Dhimitri. Therefore, Mr. Trevelyan was forced to sit very close to Miss Ashmore when they ate their modest meals. He must, certainly, engage her in conversation, though it only made him more restless. The more he talked to her, the more he wanted to talk to her.
    It was partly because she was well-educated and articulate. But there was something else, too, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. More than once he'd heard her render her intellectual Papa speechless with frustration after one of her exercises in twisted logic. What truly surprised Basil, however, was that he found himself, more often than he liked, at point rum plus.
    Though he didn't mean to flirt with her and knew it was dangerous, sometimes he'd forget about Aunt Clem and the life of idle dissipation awaiting him in England. He'd lapse into his coaxing ways, and she'd seem to respond as sweetly as he wished—until he realised that her tender glances and soft words were a precise imitation of his own. Every time, instead of taking offence, he'd end up laughing at himself and, in the next minute, making the most candid confessions.
    Afterwards, when he thought about it, he felt uneasy. He