“Excellent,” Caspar replied. “I’ll make sure his rooms are ready for him.”

“I think he’s bringing one of his beasts, as well.”

The cat curled around Caspar’s legs and chirped until he reached down to stroke its thick grey fur.

“Sorry, Doyle. I guess you’ll have to sleep inside for a bit while the wolfhound is in town.”

Doyle made his displeasure known by lifting his tail and leaping back onto the bed.

Giovanni glanced at the cat as it tiptoed across his pillows. “Make sure the gardeners check the fences, as well. I know his dogs are well-trained, but I’d hate to have one wander off like last year. Also, prepare them for the massacre that will no doubt ensue in the flower beds.”

“Of course.” Caspar paused, quietly observing his friend’s evening preparations and looking at his watch to check the time. “It will be pleasant to see him for a longer visit this time. More like the old days.”

“Yes, it will.” He trailed off, his mind already darting to his agenda for the evening.

Caspar noted his friend straightening the collar of his white shirt. “You shouldn’t wear white, you know. It washes you out, and you’re already pale as a corpse.”

Giovanni frowned and turned to him. “Funny. You’ve been watching the English women again, the ones with the clothing show, haven’t you?” He shook his head in mock sorrow tsk’ing his friend as he looked in the mirror, trying to tame his hair.

Caspar sighed. “I can’t help it. Their sardonic British humor and impeccable fashion sense lures me in every time. I do love an ironic woman.”

Giovanni snorted and turned, grabbing his black coat from the chair by the dressing table and checking it for cat hair. “When was the last time you had a date with a woman who wasn’t on the television?”

“Six months. When was the last time you did?”

“Last week.” Giovanni shrugged on his jacket, satisfied it was free of grey fur.

Caspar scowled. “That doesn’t count and you know it.”