They went into the house. Papa said: “Come into the drawing room.”

Pritchard followed them in. “Would you like some sandwiches, my lord?”

“Not just now. Leave us alone for a while, would you, Pritchard?”

Pritchard went out.

Papa made a brandy-and-soda and sipped it. “Think again, Charlotte,” he said. “Will you tell us who this man is?”

She wanted to say: He’s an anarchist who is trying to prevent your starting a war! But she merely shook her head.

“Then you must see,” he said almost gently, “that we can’t possibly trust you.”

You could have, once, she thought bitterly, but not anymore.

Papa spoke to Mama. “She’ll just have to go to the country for a month; it’s the only way to keep her out of trouble. Then, after the Cowes Regatta, she can come to Scotland for the shooting.” He sighed. “Perhaps she’ll be more manageable by next season.”

Mama said: “We’ll send her to Walden Hall, then.”

Charlotte thought: They’re talking about me as if I weren’t here.

Papa said: “I’m driving down to Norfolk in the morning, to see Aleks again. I’ll take her with me.”

Charlotte was stunned.

Aleks was at Walden Hall.

I never even thought of that!

Now I know!

“She’d better go up and pack,” Mama said.

Charlotte stood up and went out, keeping her face down so that they should not see the light of triumph in her eyes.

TWELVE

At a quarter to three Feliks was in the lobby of the National Gallery. Charlotte would probably be late, like last time, but anyway he had nothing better to do.

He was nervy and restless, sick of waiting and sick of hiding. He had slept rough again the last two nights, once in Hyde Park and once under the arches at Charing Cross. During the day he had hidden in alleys and railway sidings and patches of waste ground, coming out only to get food. It reminded him of being on the run in Siberia, and the memory was unpleasant. Even now he kept moving, going from the lobby into the domed rooms, glancing at the pictures, and returning to the lobby to look for her. He watched the clock on the wall. At half past three she still had not come. She had got involved in another dreadful luncheon party.

She would surely be able to find out where Orlov was. She was an ingenious girl, he was certain. Even if her father would not tell her straightforwardly, she would think of a way to discover the secret. Whether she would pass the information on was another matter. She was strong-willed, too.

He wished…

He wished a lot of things. He wished he had not deceived her. He wished he could find Orlov without her help. He wished human beings did not make themselves into princes and earls and kaisers and czars. He wished he had married Lydia and known Charlotte as a baby. He wished she would come: it was four o’clock.

Most of the paintings meant nothing to him: the sentimental religious scenes, the portraits of smug Dutch merchants in their lifeless homes. He liked Bronzino’s Allegory, but only because it was so sensual. Art was an area of human experience which he had passed by. Perhaps one day Charlotte would lead him into the forest and show him the flowers. But it was unlikely. First, he would have to live through the next few days, and escape after killing Orlov. Even that much was not certain. Then he would have to retain Charlotte’s affection despite having used her, lied to her and killed her cousin. That was close to impossible, but even if it happened he would have to find ways of seeing her while avoiding the police… No, there was not much chance he would know her after the assassination. He thought: Make the most of her now.

It was four-thirty.

She’s not just late, he thought with a sinking heart: she is unable to come. I hope she’s not in trouble with Walden. I hope she didn’t take risks and get found out. I wish she would come running up the steps, out of breath and a little flushed, with her hat slightly awry and an anxious look on her pretty face, and say: “I’m terribly sorry to have made you wait about. I got involved in…”

The building seemed to be emptying out. Feliks wondered what to do next. He went outside and down the steps to the pavement. There was no sign of her. He went back up the steps and was stopped at the door by a commissionaire. “Too late, mate,” the man said. “We’re closing.” Feliks turned away.

He could not wait about on the steps in the hope that she would come later, for he would be too conspicuous right here in Trafalgar Square. Anyway, she was now two hours late: she was not going to come.

She was not going to come.

Face it, he thought: she has decided to have nothing more to do with me, and quite sensibly. But would she not have come, if only to tell me that? She might have sent a note-

She might have sent a note.

She had Bridget’s address. She would have sent a note.

Feliks headed north.

He walked through the alleys of Theatreland and the quiet squares of Bloomsbury. The weather was changing. All the time he had been in England it had been sunny and warm, and he had yet to see rain. But for the last day or so the atmosphere had seemed oppressive, as if a storm were slowly gathering.

He thought: I wonder what it is like to live in Bloomsbury, in this prosperous middle-class atmosphere, where there is always enough to eat and money left over for books. But after the revolution we will take down the railings around the parks.

He had a headache. He had not suffered headaches since childhood. He wondered whether it was caused by the stormy air. More likely it was worry. After the revolution, he thought, headaches will be prohibited.

Would there be a note from her waiting at Bridget’s house? He imagined it. “Dear Mr. Kschessinsky, I regret I am unable to keep our appointment today. Yours truly, Lady Charlotte Walden.” No, it would surely not be like that. “Dear Feliks, Prince Orlov is staying at the home of the Russian Naval Attaché, 25A Wilton Place, third floor, left front bedroom. Your affectionate friend, Charlotte.” That was more like it. “Dear Father, Yes-I have learned the truth. But my ‘Papa’ has locked me in my room. Please come and rescue me. Your loving daughter, Charlotte Kschessinsky.” Don’t be a damned fool.

He reached Cork Street and looked along the road. There were no policemen guarding the house, no hefty characters in plain clothes reading newspapers outside the pub. It looked safe. His heart lifted. There’s something marvelous about a warm welcome from a woman, he thought, whether she’s a slip of a girl like Charlotte or a fat old witch like Bridget. I’ve spent too much of my life with men-or alone.

He knocked on Bridget’s door. As he waited, he looked down at the window of his old basement room, and saw that there were new curtains. The door opened.

Bridget looked at him and smiled widely. “It’s my favorite international terrorist, begod,” she said. “Come in, you darling man.”

He went into her parlor.

“Do you want some tea? It’s hot.”

“Yes, please.” He sat down. “Did the police trouble you?”

“I was interrogated by a superintendent. You must be a big cheese.”

“What did you tell him?”

She looked contemptuous. “He’d left his truncheon at home-he got nothing out of me.”

Feliks smiled. “Have you got a letter-”

But she was still talking. “Did you want your room back? I’ve let it to another fellow, but I’ll chuck him out-he’s got side-whiskers, and I never could abide side-whiskers.”

“No, I don’t want my room-”

“You’ve been sleeping rough. I can tell by the look on you.”

“That’s right.”

“Whatever it was you came to London to do, you haven’t done it yet.”

“No.”

“Something’s happened-you’ve changed.”

“Yes.”

“What, then?”