The River of No Return

downgraded her beauty to mere prettiness, but it made her seem more real. “I have recently lost my lover,” she said. “And I am suddenly beset with suitors.”
    “I am sorry for your loss.”
    Her eyes brightened, surprised. “Thank you. That is kind of you, my lord. I apologize for Henry. I hope he didn’t ruin your jacket.”
    “It can be mended. In any event, it’s not every day that I am complimented on my looks. And please.” He smiled. “Call me Nick.”
    Alva opened her mouth to say something, but they were interrupted again, this time by Bertrand Penture. “Excuse me, Miss Blomgren.” He bowed, and Alva curtsied, grimacing slightly at Nick as she did so, though by the time Penture straightened up her face was a mask of beautiful disinterest. “I am afraid I must steal your companion from you.” Penture turned to Nick. “If you would accompany me, my lord? I would like you to try a cognac I have saved for just such a special guest.”
    Nick bowed. “Of course, Monsieur Penture. It would be my pleasure. Please allow me to make my good-byes to this lovely creature and I shall be with you shortly.” He winked broadly at the Frenchman and was pleased to see a look of revulsion flit across Penture’s stony face.
    “Of course. A footman will direct you to the study when you are . . . finished.” Penture curled a lip and left.
    Alva and Nick watched him until his black back disappeared among the revelers. Then both began speaking at once.
    “I—”
    “We—”
    They both halted, amused, and then Alva carried on. “We have not concluded our interesting conversation.” She laid a hand on Nick’s arm. “You may find me in Soho Square, if you decide that you do, after all, need friends.” She turned to go.
    “Wait.” Nick caught her hand. “I don’t want to be your lover, but I do want to be your friend. I want . . . I want to learn from you. I am beginning to think that I like you very much indeed.”
    “Thank you.” She squeezed his hand.
    “One more thing, Alva.” Nick looked searchingly at her face. “Henry couldn’t tell if you were an angel or a goddess. But I think I know.” He felt her hand twitch in his, just once. “You are an angel, aren’t you? A very specific kind of angel.”
    She lifted a finger to her lips. “Shh.” With a twist and a flurry of blue silk, she was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
    Afootman waited just inside the doors that led to the terrace. “If you will follow me, my lord,” he said. He was a short man, with a thick accent that Nick couldn’t place. He led Nick across the ballroom, where dancers were forming for the next set, through a door on the other side, down a long hallway, and up a flight of stairs. Finally they reached a small, inconspicuous wooden door, and the footman knocked three times slowly, followed by a pause, and then four times, fast.
    The door was unlocked from the inside, in a series of soft clicks that sounded, to Nick’s ears, like the mechanism of a computerized lock. Eventually it opened. Penture stood looking at them. “You are alone?”
    “Yes,” the footman said.
    “No one followed you?”
    “No.”
    “Good. Come.” Penture stood aside and Nick followed the footman in, glancing back to see that yes, on this side the door was smooth, gleaming metal, inset with a lock that looked like it belonged to a bank vault.
    It was a large, windowless chamber, much older than the house that now surrounded it. A small fire in a large fireplace created a pool of light against the far wall; otherwise the chamber was lit only dimly by a few flickering wall sconces. A massive, carved Jacobean table ran down the center of the room, set around with a mélange of sleek modernist chairs. The floor was mosaic, clearly Roman, though Nick could not see what was depicted in the center. Only some naked arms and legs and the head of a snake emerged from the shadows under the table. The vaulted ceiling was Norman, the walls hung with tapestries that, to the extent that they were illuminated by the wall sconces, seemed to depict the horticulture of tulips in be-windmilled Dutch landscapes. Hanging above the center of the table was a grotesque chandelier of white hand-blown glass, which Nick recognized as the twenty-first-century work of Dale Chihuly. A few candles gleamed somewhere in its bulbous interior but shed no light outward. Beneath it, a vase of white tulips seemed to flush with their own light, like phosphorescent sea