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likely time to find her at home. And if she were not there, then she would almost certainly return in time to change for dinner—if she still continued to go out for dinner after having publicly made such a startling accusation. She would hardly be on most people’s guest lists anymore.
    The door was opened by a maid he assumed to be French. She was small and dark and very pretty, and he remembered from somewhere that fashionable ladies who could afford it had French maids. Certainly this girl spoke with a decided accent.
    “Good afternoon, sir.”
    “Good afternoon.” Monk did not feel it necessary to try to win anyone’s liking. The Countess was the person in need of help, if she had not already placed herself beyond it. “My name is William Monk. Sir Oliver Rathbone”—he recalled the “sir” only just in time to include it—“asked me to call upon the Countess Rostova to see if I could be of assistance.”
    The maid smiled at him. She really was very pretty indeed.
    “But of course. Please come in.” She opened the door wider and held it while he passed her and walked into a spacious but unremarkable vestibule. There was a large urn of daisies of some sort on a jardiniere. He could smell the rich summery aroma of them. She closed the door, then led him straight into a farther room and invited him to wait while she summoned her mistress.
    He stood and stared around him. The room was utterly alien to his taste or experience, and yet he did not feel uncomfortable. He wondered what Rathbone had made of it. It obviously belonged to someone who did not give a fig for convention. He walked over to look more closely at the ebony-frontedbookcase. The books inside were in several languages: German, French, Russian and English. There were novels, poetry, accounts of travels, and some philosophy. He took out one or two and saw that they all opened quite easily, as if they had been well handled. They were not there for effect, but because someone liked to read them.
    The Countess seemed in no hurry. He was disappointed. She was going to be one of those women who kept a man waiting in order to feel some kind of mastery of the situation.
    He swung around towards the room and was startled to see her standing in the doorway, absolutely still, watching him. Rathbone had not said that she was beautiful, which was an extraordinary omission. Monk did not know why, but he had imagined someone plain. She had dark hair, tied very loosely. She was of roughly average height, and had no figure to speak of, but her face was extraordinary. She had long, slightly slanted eyes of golden green above wide cheekbones. It was not so much a thing of form or color which made her so arresting as the laughter and the intelligence in her—and the sheer vibrancy of her character. She made anyone else seem slow and apathetic. He did not even notice what she was wearing; it could have been anything, fashionable or not.
    She was looking at him with curiosity. She still did not move from the doorway.
    “So you are the man who is going to assist Sir Oliver.” She was on the brink of smiling, as if he interested and amused her. “You are not what I expected.”
    “Which, no doubt, I should take as a compliment,” he said dryly.
    This time she did laugh, a rich, slightly husky sound full of pleasure. She came in and walked easily over to the chair opposite where he stood.
    “You should,” she agreed. “Please sit down, Mr. Monk, unless standing makes you feel more comfortable?” She sank, in a single, graceful movement, onto the chair and sat, straight-backed,her feet sideways, staring at him. She managed her skirt as if it were only the slightest hindrance to her. “What do you wish to know from me?”
    He had considered this carefully on his way over. He did not wish for emotions, opinions, convictions as to other people’s motives or beliefs. There might be a time for that later, as indications of which way to look for something or how to