In Chelsea, yet another part of the city, a nobleman was turning his gaze from the flickering computer screen to the elegantly fluted bottle resting in a monogrammed silver ice bucket. Geraint drew the bottle toward him, wrapped a linen cloth around the cork, and pulled it out so carefully that the hiss of escaping gas was barely audible. She hadn’t heard; she would be deeply asleep by now. Dom Ruisse ’38 would have been wasted on the girl—one of Geraint’s rare lapses of taste.