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annoyance at Mr Clyde. Being introduced is one thing, being presented as to royalty quite another.
    â€˜I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Lane.’
    My annoyance vanished at her open smile and the butterfly light touch of her white-gloved hand on my wrist. A polite nod would have met the case, particularly since we’d interrupted her, but she seemed as glad to see me as if I were an old friend. She spoke to me directly, apparently ignoring the men around her.
    â€˜I was telling them how much better it would have been if Beethoven had put some singing into it. Don’t you think all music should have singing in it, Miss Lane?’ Instantly, without pausing for breath, she trilled off a few bars of Rosina’s aria from The Barber , in a small but tuneful voice. The male cooing broke out again.
    â€˜I’m sure Beethoven would have, if he’d heard you singing, Contessa,’ the eighty-year-old said gallantly and was rewarded with a smile that rocked him on his feet.
    She could afford to smile. Her little teeth were white and regular as a healthy child’s. She was small in build, hardly coming up to Mr Clyde’s shoulder, with tiny hands and feet. At first glance I’d taken her to be about my age, in her early twenties, but she was older by five years or so. Her dress was green silk, low in the bodice, embroidered with silver lilies of the valley. Another lily of the valley made of small diamonds set tremblante quivered in her dark curls when she moved her head. Before I was called on to take sides about putting arias in sonatas, a series of angry arpeggios sounded from the piano. Our hostess was standing at the keyboard, looking daggers at the contessa and our little group. Everybody else had resumed their seats.
    â€˜If everybody is quite ready . . .’
    Mr Clyde escorted me back to my seat. ‘I’d be grateful if I might have a word with you afterwards, Miss Lane.’
    â€˜Certainly.’
    The second sonata was as beautifully played as the first, but this time I didn’t give it the concentration it deserved. I could take a guess at the case I was about to be offered. Even a few minutes in the company of the contessa were enough to see that she was a breaker of hearts. There might be no intent or malice about it, no more than a cat leaping after a bird. A cat can’t help it – but the bird’s destroyed for all that. Some man was making a fool of himself over the little contessa so his friends were trying to rescue him. If I’d guessed rightly about the diplomatic background of Mr Clyde, that man was highly placed. So what would they ask me to do? Discredit her, quite possibly. Find something in her past or present that would disgust the besotted young man. Perhaps he’d written compromising letters which I was supposed to buy or even steal back. Well, I could always say no. I’d promised myself that I’d never take on a case my conscience didn’t approve, not for any money. I was disappointed in Mr Clyde, though. When he’d first come to stand beside me I’d felt that lifting of the spirits and quickening of the heart that comes at the start of an adventure. It’s as strange as love and as difficult to describe, and yet it’s the thing above all that keeps me in my strange career. This time, it looked as if my instinct had been wrong. At least I’d had the pleasure of a couple of sonatas for my trouble, so I might as well enjoy this one.
    Only my mind drifted away again. Why was I more than half decided on indignant refusal? Had I liked the contessa on sight so much? Not entirely. Her musical views were preposterous. She’d been charming to me, but that might be another way of appealing to her male audience. A clever flirt never does anything without being conscious of its effect, even when she seems impulsive. Especially when she seems impulsive. I wouldn’t trust her an inch but – yes, I had