The River of No Return

this party, march on down to St. Paul’s, and punch the statue of a piously shrouded Donne on the nose.
    Nick had been in perfect control of his emotions, holding Julia at arm’s length. But then she had risen up out of the floor, just when Nick was reading that bit about America. And before a lamb could shake its tail . . . no. He needed an American animal. Before a raccoon could wash its dinner, they had been in each other’s arms and halfway to paradise. Paradise or Gretna Green or Las Vegas. Wherever he could marry her and live happily ever after with the greatest possible efficiency. Nick frowned to himself. America! Home of American girls. Raised on promises. Make it last all night. He’d liked those girls, liked them a lot. But now it seemed that this Devonshire acorn was his America, his newfound land, even though he’d stumbled across her in his own past and in his own backyard.
    Except that now Arkady had dumped the Whore of Babylon in his lap and told him it was his duty to service her in the name of the Guild.
    The crowd in the ballroom was staring at him, of course. The two aristocrats had arrived. All those faces turned upward to where they stood at the top of the stairs leading down into the ballroom. Each and every person here knew, apparently, that Nick was looking for sex. Well, they could stare all they liked. He wasn’t going to give them a show. He wouldn’t talk to a single woman all evening.
    Finally Nick stepped forward to meet his host. Bertrand Penture was a man of about Nick’s own age and height, handsome in the Gary Cooper style. Nick nodded. “Penture.”
    Penture’s bow was precise and perfunctory, only just deep enough to acknowledge Nick’s rank. “My lord.” His French accent was slight, and it tinged his words with honey, but there was nothing sweet about his expression. Nick could see it in the man’s strange, pale green eyes: Penture disliked him. And Nick found himself responding, his lip curling in a scornful smile, his eyes flickering down the man’s immaculate evening dress and back up again.
    “Ah, Penture, you old undertaker.” Arkady pushed in between them, his voice booming out over the crowd. “Wonderful news about the shipping venture. I was afraid I would lose my trousers.”
    Nick raised an eyebrow. “The count is afraid to lose his trousers, but he is always happy to trick his friends into losing theirs. You must be careful, Penture. Before you know it this Russian will have you dancing the cancan on a tabletop.”
    Arkady barked, but Penture’s expression did not change. “I am not given to making or enjoying jokes, my lord,” he said. “Especially not jokes made at the expense of people for whom your English is not a mother tongue. Besides.” He lowered his voice. “The cancan is a dance not yet invented. You are clearly an ass, but please try not to be a fool.”
    So this was the Alderman of the Guild in 1815, a few months before the battle of Waterloo: a humorless, supercilious Frenchman. For a second Nick forgot that, back in the good old twenty-first century, he liked the French. Something deadly must have flared in Nick’s face, for Penture, without taking those strange eyes from him, spoke softly, for Nick’s ears alone. “Watch yourself, Mr.Davenant.”
    “I am in perfect control,” Nick said in a normal tone of voice. “In spite of the greatest possible provocation.”
    Penture’s nostrils flared. But when he opened his mouth again, he spoke as the host welcoming important guests. “Please enjoy yourselves in my home, my lords. I hope I have time to speak to you later.” He bowed and turned to greet his next guest.
    “Well,” Nick said as they descended the steps. “He’s a prick.”
    “He put you in your place,” Arkady said. “But I am glad you have rediscovered your sense of humor. I introduce you to the woman now, yes?”
    Nick turned to the Russian with a public smile, but with private venom in his voice. “Do not speak to me. In fact, do not even come near me. You may find your own way home tonight. Good-bye.” Without a backward glance he slipped sideways into the crowd.
    “She has the yellow hair and tonight she wears a blue gown,” Arkady called over the heads of several partiers. “You cannot miss her.”
    Nick did not reply. He headed straight for the tables where drinks were being served.
    Fifteen minutes later he had relaxed, and could even admit to himself that the ball was agreeable. It was easy