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“Lord Alan.” Her eyes skimmed Nina on their way back to her husband.

“My dear Patricia missed the final arias,” Lord Kilderbee told Alan, tucking Lady Kilderbee’s arm beneath his. He gave Lady Kilderbee’s arm an indulgent pat and tutted. “Gossiping in the garden.”

“Not gossiping.” Lady Kilderbee’s smile retracted into a rosebud pout. “Lady Ashbee was in need of my support.”

“Can’t fault a loyal friend.” Lord Kilderbee patted her again. “But the signorina was divine. A shame you missed a moment of it.”

Alan selected a colorful macaron from the tray. “My poor brother missed the latter half of the performance, too. Truly a shame.” He looked up with a sarcastic smile, lost on Lord Kilderbee, if not his wife. “There’s always next time.”

Nina watched the Kilderbees make their way toward the door, still awkwardly linked at the arm, their steps out of rhythm. When she turned back to De’Ath, he was offering the macaron to Fritz, who was curled inside his waistcoat. Her heart skittered.

She picked up her teacup. “You went to the soiree.”

“Someone suggested I give the signorina her chance.”

She flushed.

“My review will be rhapsodic.” There was a shade of mockery in his voice. “And I’ll be rewarded. If I signed my surname to it, my brother would rhapsodize to his banker. My account would be opened before the ink was dry. But I can’t bring myself to go that far.”

“Your surname.” Nina added a mille-feuille to her plate. “It’s not De’Ath?”

“Not originally. I adopted it at Oxford.”

“A pen name.” She worked the tines of her fork into the mille-feuille, piercing the layers of puff pastry and custard, a delicate operation. It steadied her. “Why De’Ath? You liked the morbid puns?”

Lord Death.

“More than I liked the puns suggested by my surname.”

“How bad can it be?” She looked up. He was baiting her, grinning. And it wasn’t so very hard after all, in this sparkling shop, to lull herself again into a sense of complacency. “What is your surname?”

“Lord Alan Daft.” He sketched a bow. “At your service.”

“Your name is Daft.” She blinked. “Daft. Daft? But that’s . . .” A giggle tickled her throat. She coughed.

“Daft,” she repeated.

“Your mistress is cruel.” Alan bent his head to Fritz. “I show her where to thrust the knife and she drives it home and twists the blade.”

Fritz fixed her with his glossy eyes.

“What was I supposed to say?” She put down her fork. “Daft. How venerable. Tell me of its ancient and distinguished origin.”

“Check your Debrett’s. It’s a fine old name. Geoffrey has always considered my refusal to use it an affront to the family.”

“But really it was necessity.” She paused. “A man of letters can’t be . . . Daft.”

“That too.” He gave her an inscrutable look. “I make things worse by calling Geoffrey, Geoffrey, as though we’re mates who go round the pubs. I should call him Umfreville, of course. I used to call him Umf, but he liked that even less.”

“Umf.” She laughed aloud.

“I’m going to have to burn this waistcoat.” He offered his thumb to Fritz, who grabbed it. “He really does smell like a pestilence. So. The rest of my news. Do you want to hear it?”

All the sparking light seemed suddenly to slice at her. The outside world, crashing through the glass.

“What is it?” she asked, a question, not an affirmation, not a lie, as though that mattered.

He stretched the pause deliberately, and she realized she could see him reflected simultaneously in two of the shop’s mirrors, and herself as well.