“Then rearrange it.” He shrugged. “Of course, if there is a problem, we could sit at another table.”

“No, of course not, sir,” the aide said hastily. “No need-no need at all. I’ll go and make the necessary changes.”

He departed. Dunkley said, “I say, old chap, we seem to be causing a bit of a problem.”

“Not at all. I’m their Russian Frankenstein, the great Alexander Kurbsky led out like a bear on a chain to astonish the world and help make Mother Russia seem great again.”

All this was delivered with no apparent bitterness, and those cold gray eyes gave nothing away. They reminded Monica uncomfortably of Dillon, as Kurbsky continued, taking Monica’s hand and raising it to his lips.

“If you glance over my shoulder, you may see the Russian ambassador approaching to see what the fuss is about.”

“Quite right,” Monica told him. “Is he going to be angry?”

“Not at all. The moment he claps eyes on the most beautiful woman in the room, he’s going to scramble to make sure you grace his table and no one else’s.” He turned to Dunkley. “Isn’t that so, Professor?”

“Don’t ask me, dear boy, I’m just going with the flow. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.”

And then the ambassador arrived.

THE DIPLOMAT ENDED up with his wife seated on his right, Monica on his left, and Kurbsky opposite. Dunkley beamed away lower down the table, facing the French ambassador and proving that an Englishman could speak the language perfectly. The whole thing was thoroughly enjoyable, but glancing across the table, Monica was conscious that Kurbsky had withdrawn into himself. He reminded her once again of Dillon in a way. For one thing, the champagne intake was considerable, but there was an air of slight detachment. He observed, not really taking part, but then that was the writer in him, judging people, constantly assessing the situation in which he found himself.