"Yes, best to let him sleep--I'll leave him a note," Jamie had said, welcoming any excuse to distract him from looming disaster. "Pity he won't see the match, Malcolm was a sports enthusiast, as you know, a grand swimmer, a fine cricketer as well, tennis of course. Sad that he's, well, not his old self."

She could see that he was as gloomy as Malcolm but that did not matter, she thought, men were generally serious and she was pleased to have company as a foil against the others. Since the great day when that which was growing had ceased to be, and her health and vigor had returned, better than ever, she had found it unwise to be alone with any of them. Except Andr`e. To her delight he had changed, no longer threatening or referring to the help he had given her, all of it she would like to forget, no longer looking at her with rough and heavy-lidded eyes, too easy to read the cruelty behind them, though sure the cruelty still lurked within him.

Important to keep him friendly, she thought, aware how vulnerable she was. Listen but beware.

Some of what he says is good: "Forget what happened before, it never happened."

Andr`e's right. Nothing happened. Nothing, except he's dead. I really do love Malcolm, I'll bear him sons and be the perfect wife and hostess and our salon in Paris will be...

A roar distracted her. A mob of Navy players had forced the ball between the Army posts but the Army fought the ball away and now a general riot began, the Navy claiming a goal, the Army disputing it. Dozens of seamen swarmed on to the pitch to join the melee, then soldiers and soon there was a free-for-all, traders and others cheering and laughing and enjoying the spectacle, the referee, Lunkchurch, desperately trying to stay out of the fight and, meanwhile, get some order back on the field.

"Oh, look... that poor fellow's being kicked to death!"

"Nothing to worry about, Angelique, just horseplay, clearly it wasn't a goal," the General said confidently. The man was Navy so of little concern. Sir William, the other side of her, was as excited as any, nothing like a good brawl to lighten the spirits. Nonetheless, conscious of Angelique, he leaned over to the General.

"Think we should get on with the game, Thomas, eh?"

"Quite right." The General motioned to Pallidar.

"Break it up if you please--reason with them."

Pallidar of the Dragoons went onto the pitch, took out his revolver and fired a salvo into the air. Everyone froze. "Listen, you lot," he called out, all eyes on him now, "Everyone off the pitch except the players. The General's order: another riot and the match is cancelled and those involved will be disciplined. Move!" The field began to clear, many hobbling, the injured dragged off by supporters. "Now, Mr.Referee, was it a goal or not?"

"Well, Captain, yes and no, you see ..."

"Was it or not?"

The silence was strong. Lunkchurch knew whatever he said was going to be wrong. He decided the truth was best: "A goal for the Navy!"

Amid cheers and countercheers, threats and counterthreats, Pallidar walked back, tall and very pleased with himself. "Oh, Settry, what bravery!" Angelique spoke with such appreciation that Marlowe and others were riven with jealousy. "Good work, old boy," Marlowe said reluctantly as the game--the fight--began in earnest to cheers drowned by the boos and curses.

"Jolly good game, Thomas, what?" Sir William said.

"Clearly that wasn't a goal, the Referee's a--" "Poppycock! Five guineas says the Navy will win."

The General's neck had gone a darker shade of red and this pleased Sir William and helped to get him out of his ill humor. Nothing but quarrels in the Settlement and Drunk Town, irritating letters and complaints from the Bakufu and Customs House, and he had not forgotten the General's stupidity at the riot.

Added to these woes, the last mails had brought more foul news and forecasts from the Foreign Office that lack of financial support in Parliament would herald major cutbacks of Diplomatic personnel "even though the coffers of the Empire are overflowing, there will be no salary increases this year. The American war promises to be the most savage in history because of the newly invented shell, bronze cartridge, breech-loading rifle, machine gun and breech-loading cannon; with the defeat of Union forces at Shiloh and the Second Battle of Bull Run the war is presently expected to be won by the Confederates, most pundits in the City having written off President Lincoln as weak and ineffectual, but, dear Willie, H.m.'s policy remains the same: to back both sides, keep our heads down and stay to hell out of this one..."

European news was also bad: Russian Cossack troops had again massacred thousands of Poles in Warsaw demonstrating against Russian rule; Prince von Bismarck had been made Minister President of Prussia and was rumored to be preparing for war against expansionist France; Austria-Hungary and Russia appeared to be on the verge of war again; inevitably more fighting in the Balkans...

And so on, ad nauseam, Sir William thought with a scowl. Nothing changes! And I'm damned if I believe the Bakufu will do what they've promised which means I will have to show the Flag here. I'll have to teach the Japanners that a promise is a promise if it's made to the British Raj, by God, and to remind Zergeyev, Seratard and others the same thing.

Bombard Yedo would be the simplest and easiest solution, that'd bring them to heel quick enough. But then there's Ketterer--perhaps his foray into history books will have changed him. Ugh! What a hope...

"A rouble for your thoughts, Sir William,"

Count Zergeyev, said with a smile, offering a silver flask embossed with his family crest in gold. "Vodka is good for thoughts."

"Thanks." Sir William took a swallow and felt the fire slide down his gullet, reminding him of all the wonderful times at the Embassy in St. Petersburg when he was in his twenties, a center of power, not an outpost like Yokohama, drinking and carousing, balls and ballet and dachas, night life and luxury--for the few--excitement and intrigues and marvelous dinners and Vertinskya, never far from his thoughts.

For five of his seven years there she had been his mistress, youngest daughter of a favored goldsmith to the Court, an artist like her father, her father benign about their liaison, William's own Russian mother doting on the girl and wanting him to marry her. "Sorry, Mama dear, no chance of that at all, much as I'd like it, the Service would never approve. It's Sir Roger's daughter Daphne. Sorry..."

He drank again, the misery of their parting still with him. "I was thinking about Vertinskya," he said in Russian.

"Ah! Yes, the girls of Mother Russia are very special," Zergeyev replied compassionately in the same language. "Their love, if you are so blessed, is forever and then forever again." The affair had been smiled at in diplomatic circles and well documented by the Cheka, the Tsar's secret police, therefore part of Sir William's dossier that of course Zergeyev had read. Stupid of the girl to kill herself, he thought, never quite sure if William was aware of her suicide shortly after he had returned to London. That was never part of the plan, nor his duty to tell him. Why did she do it?

Over this boor? Surely that's not possible, but for whatever reason, a pity, her usefulness, to both of us, would have lasted for many more years. "Perhaps your Foreign Office will post you there again--there are other Vertinskyas."

"Not much chance of that I'm afraid."

"Let's hope. Another hope, mon ami, that your Lord Palmerston will see the logic that we should have the Kuriles. Like the Dardanelles --both should surely be Russian."

Sir William saw the glitter in his strange sloe eyes. "Not much chance of that I'm afraid."