“Lady Starling, a pleasure long overdue.” He relieved her of her empty glass and waved for a passing waiter. “How are things in Cambridge these days? And this will be Professor George Dunkley, am I correct? I’ve read your book on the other Alexander.”

Dunkley was stunned. “My dear chap.” He shook hands, obviously deeply affected.

“The other Alexander?” Monica inquired.

“An early work,” Dunkley told her. “An analysis of Alexander Dumas and his writing salon.”

“All those assistants, and Dumas prowling up and down the aisles like a schoolmaster in a black frock coat,” Kurbsky said.

He resonated charm, throwing it off as if it was of no account, his voice pleasantly deep, only a hint of a Russian accent.

“Was it really like that?” Monica asked.

“But of course, and look what it produced. The Three Musketeers, The Man in the Iron Mask, The Count of Monte Cristo.”

Dunkley said, breathless with enthusiasm, “The literary establishment in Paris in his day treated him abominably.”

“I agree. On the other hand, they really got their faces rubbed in it when his son turned out one of the greatest of French plays, La Dame aux Caméllias.”

“And then Verdi used the story for La Traviata!” Dunkley said.

Kurbsky smiled. “One would hope Dumas got a royalty.”

They laughed, and Dunkley said, “Oh, my goodness, Captain Kurbsky, my seminars would be so crowded if my students knew you were going to attend.”

“That’s an enticing prospect, but Cambridge is not possible, I’m afraid-and Captain Kurbsky belongs to a time long gone. I’m plain Alexander now.” He smiled at Monica. “Or Alex, if you prefer.”

She returned his smile, slightly breathless, and an aide approached and said formally, “The ambassador is ready. If you would form the party, dinner is served.”

“Yes, of course,” Kurbsky said. “These two will be sitting with me.”

The aide faltered. “But sir, I don’t think that would be possible. It’s all arranged.”