"Oh, yes of course." McFay had already asked Struan's permission, but he and every man within hearing wondered about the implications of that remark, though all bets against an engagement were off. Even in private, Struan had given him no clue though McFay had felt duty bound to report the rumors.

"None of their rotten business, Jamie.

None."

He had agreed but his disquiet increased. The captain off an incoming merchantman, an old friend, had slipped him a letter from Malcolm's mother asking for a confidential report: I wish to know everything that has happened since this Richaud woman arrived in Yokohama, Jamie.

Everything, rumour, facts, gossip and I need not stress that this is to be a serious secret between us.

Bloody hell, Jamie thought, I'm committed by holy oath to serve the tai-pan whoever he is and now his mother wants... but then a mother has rights, doesn't she? Not necessarily, but Mrs. Struan has because she's Mrs. Struan and, well you're used to doing what she wants.

Haven't you done her bidding, her requests and suggestions, for years?

For the love of God, stop fooling yourself, Jamie, hasn't she truly been running Culum and Struan's for years, and neither you nor anyone has ever wanted to face the fact openly?

"That's right," he muttered, shocked by the thought he had been afraid to bring to the front of his mind. Suddenly uncomfortable, he hastily covered his lapse, but everyone was still concentrating on Angelique.

Except Norbert. "What's right, Jamie?" he asked under the buzz of conversation, his smile flat.

"Everything, Norbert. Great evening, eh?"

To his great relief, Angelique diverted them both.

"Good night, good night, Henri, gentlemen," she said over general protests. "I'm sorry but I must see my patient before I sleep." She held out her hand. With practiced elegance, Seratard kissed it, Norbert, Jamie and the others awkwardly and before any one else could volunteer, Andr`e Poncin said, "Perhaps I may escort you to your home?"

"Of course, why not? Your music transported me."

The night was cool and overcast but pleasant enough, her woolen shawl decoratively around her shoulders, the bottom ruffle of her wide, hooped skirt dragging carelessly in the dirt of the wooden sidewalk--so necessary during the summer rains that transformed all roads into bogs.

Only one small part of her mind dragging with it.

"Andr`e, your music is wonderful, oh how I wish I could play like you," she said, meaning it.

"It's only practice, just practice."

They strolled along towards the brightly lit Struan Building, speaking companionably in French, Andr`e very aware of the envious glances of the men streaming across the street to the Club-- boisterous, packed, and inviting--warmed by her, not with lust or passion or desire, just with her company and happy chattering that hardly ever required an answer.

Last night at Seratard's "French" dinner in a private room in the Yokohama Hotel, he had sat beside her and found her youth and seeming frivolity refreshing, her love and knowledge of Paris, the restaurants, theatres, the talk of her young friends, laughing about them and strolling or riding in the Bois, all the excitement of the Second Empire filling him with nostalgia, reminding him of his university days and how much he, too, missed home.

Too many years in Asia, China and here.

Curious this girl is so much like my own daughter. Marie's same age, birthdays the same month, July, same eyes, same coloring...

He corrected himself: Perhaps like Marie. How many years since I broke with Francoise and left the two of them in her family pension near the Sorbonne I boarded in? Seventeen. How many years since I last saw them? Ten.

Merde, I should never have married, Francoise enceinte or not. I was the fool, not her, at least she remarried and runs the pension.

But Marie?

The sound of the waves took his vision to the sea.

A stray gull cawed overhead. Not far offshore were the riding lights of their anchored flagship and that broke the spell, reminding him and concentrating his mind.

Ironic, this slip of a girl now becomes an important pawn in the Great Game, France versus Britain. Ironic but life. Do I leave it until tomorrow, or the next day, or deal the cards as we agreed, Henri and I?

"Ah," she was saying, her fan fluttering, "I feel so happy tonight, Andr`e, your music has given me so much, has taken me to the Opera, has lifted me until I can smell the perfume of Paris..."

In spite of himself he was beguiled. Is it her, or because she reminds me of what Marie might have been? I don't know, but never mind, Angelique, tonight I'll leave you in your happy balloon. Tomorrow is soon enough.

Then his nostrils caught a suggestion of her perfume, Vie de Camille, reminding him of the phial he had acquired from Paris with such difficulty for his musume, Hana--the Flower --and sudden rage swept away his impulse to kindness.

There was no one within hearing distance, most of the High Street empty. Even so, he kept his voice down. "Sorry to tell you but I've some private news you should have. There's no way to break it easily but your father visited Macao some weeks ago and gambled heavily, and lost."

He saw the swift pallor. His heart went out to her but he continued as he and Seratard had planned. "Sorry."

"Heavily, Andr`e? What does that mean?"

The words were barely audible and he saw her staring at him wide-eyed, rigid in the lee of a building.

"He has lost everything, his business, your funds."

She gasped. "Everything? My funds too?

But he can't!"

"Sorry, he can, and has. He's within the law, you're his daughter, an unmarried woman, apart from being a minor, he's your father with jurisdiction over you and everything you possess but of course you know that. Sorry. Do you have other money?" he asked, knowing she did not.

"Sorry?" She shivered and fought to make her mind work clearly, the suddenness of knowing that the second of her great terrors was now a reality and common knowledge tore asunder her carefully, self-generated cocoon. "How, how do you know all this?" she stammered, groping for air. "My, my funds are mine... he promised."

"He changed his mind. And Hong Kong's a village--there are no secrets in Hong Kong, Angelique, no secrets there, or here. Today a message arrived from Hong Kong, couriered from a business partner. He sent the details--he was in Macao at the time and witnessed the debacle."

He kept his voice friendly and concerned as a good friend should be, but telling only half the truth.

"He and I, we, we own some of your father's paper, loans from last year and still unpd."

Another fear slashed into her. "Doesn't... my father doesn't pay his bills?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

In anguish she was thinking of her aunt's letter and knew for certain now that her uncle's loan had not been repaid either and he was in jail because... perhaps because of me, she wanted to shout, trying to keep her balance, wishing this was all a dream oh God oh God what am I going to do?

"I want you to know if I can help, please tell me."

Abruptly her voice became shrill.

"Help me? You've destroyed my peace--if what you say is true. Help me? Why did you tell me this now, why why why when I was so happy?"

"Better you should know at once. Better I tell you, than an enemy."

Her face twisted. "Enemy, what enemy?

Why should I have enemies? I've done nothing to anyone, nothing nothing noth--" The tears began flooding. In spite of himself, he held her for a moment, compassionately, then put both hands on her shoulders and shook her.

"Stop it," he said, letting his voice sharpen. "My God, stop it, don't you understand, I'm trying to help you!" Several men were approaching on the other side of the street but he saw that they were weaving and concerned only with themselves.