wife is unwell, and the press blame her poor health on my friendship with Mademoiselle. It is nonsense, of course.”
Mademoiselle flicked Ryder a quick glance, conspiratorial, as if to confirm that they both saw through the prince’s desperate attempts to convince himself if no one else that his infidelity had no victims.
She turned to her companion. “Freddie, I should like some properly chilled champagne. What the waiters are serving is far too warm. Is it possible to teach them how it ought to be done?”
The prince inclined his head. “Yes, of course.” He gave Ryder an appraising look and hurried off on his mission.
Ryder turned back to Mademoiselle. “I’m impressed. That was very neatly done.”
She favored him with a modest smile. “Freddie is not difficult to manage. He likes to instruct. If I can set him a task where he is above others, teaching them, he is happy. And it leaves me free to pursue my own interests.”
Ryder shook his head. “That’s my cue to ask ‘what interests?’ Not going to happen, Mademoiselle.”
She moved an inch closer. “Why? Don’t you want to flirt with me?”
“To what end?”
She lifted one shapely shoulder in a shrug. “Why must there be an end? You think like all Anglo-Saxons, Mr. White. Sometimes it is simply good to flirt for its own sake. It is pleasant to talk to someone attractive, is it not?”
“It is.”
“And I am attractive, am I not?”
Ryder gave her a lopsided grin. “There you go again, tossing bait in my direction. I’m not biting.”
“I am very naughty,” she admitted. “But I intrigue you, I think. No, do not answer. I do not wish to get you into trouble.” She tipped her head, running her gaze from his eyes to his earring. She put out one fingertip to touch it. “This must have hurt.”
“Like pleasure, pain is relative.”
Her eyes widened. “I was wrong about you, Mr. White. I think there may be something of the Frenchman about you after all.”
They were still smiling at each other when the prince arrived followed closely by a waiter with a bucket of icy cold champagne. “I claim victory,” the prince announced. He handed a glass to Mademoiselle and another to Ryder. “Come, let us toast my triumph.”
“Toujours,” Mademoiselle said. She sampled her champagne and praised him lavishly for his cleverness. The little prince preened.
“Tell me, Mr. White, what does a hunter do with his time besides kill things?” Mademoiselle asked.
Ryder, relaxing into the champagne, gave her a pointed look. “I have hobbies.”
“I wager you do,” she murmured.
The prince cut in sharply. “I do not think you are as successful as Mrs. Farraday says. I inquired about guides for our safari and your name did not arise in the conversation.”
“Probably because I don’t guide.” Ryder helped himself to another glass of the cold champagne. He glanced to where Jude was dancing with Anthony Wickenden. The band was playing something soft and coaxing and the veranda doors had been thrown open to the warm night, the perfume of it thick with flowers and spice and smoke and the red earth of Africa itself. Outside the stars were shedding their light on the club gardens, glittering like so much broken glass on the velvet of the night sky. It was a night for falling in love, and it looked to Ryder as if Anthony was halfway there.
He realized the prince was speaking. “But how is it that you do not guide? All of the hunters do.”
“I do what I like. And I don’t usually like to guide. I’d rather hunt for meat or to take out a maneater than kill for sport.”
The prince made a noise of derision. “I thought you appreciated beauty for its own sake. Is preserving the beauty of an animal forever not reason enough?”
Ryder sighed. The strange little man and his cryptic conversation were tiring. Mademoiselle was a lovely distraction but not quite enough compensation for putting up with him. “Trophies are not beautiful,” he said flatly. “Not to me.”
To his surprise, Mademoiselle flushed deeply. The barb hadn’t been directed at her, but she had taken it to heart, and he saw a flash of pure anger that she worked hard to smother.
The prince spoke again. “I think you exaggerate your talents, Mr. White. Like all colonials, you are a teller of tales, are you not? Come, confess to me that you are not all that you seem. What are you really?”
Ryder was well and truly bored and knew the fastest way to get rid of the prince was to tell him the truth. “I’m a farmer and tradesman. I have a sisal plantation on the coast, and I have a string of small shops called dukas in the bush. I sell rice and fabric and motor oil, Your Highness. Now, if you will excuse me—” He didn’t wait for permission to leave. He flicked a brisk nod towards Mademoiselle and turned on his heel, the prince spluttering behind him.
Out of the tail of his eye, Ryder saw a commotion at the door. Rex Farraday was in heated conversation with the club porter while Helen was clutching her necklace with one slim hand, her face drained of color. Suddenly, a small crowd of native Africans shoved into the doorway, eyes rolling in terror, the women sobbing and the men shouting. In their midst they carried an unconscious man, blood dripping red onto the polished floor. Rex did his best to calm them, but Ryder caught one word repeated over and over again. Simba.
It wasn’t possible, Ryder thought. A lion in the middle of Nairobi? But the Africans were insistent, and the porter added his voice to the fray. Ryder slid through the crowd until he was at the man’s side. He was about to question the porter when he saw the injured man’s wounds. There was no mistaking a lion’s bite, and the rest of the party knew it. The word simba flowed over and through them, sparking excitement and in some cases outright hysteria. The band stopped playing and the crowd shoved its way to the windows, exclaiming loudly as they caught sight of the creature.
“Oh, that poor little monkey,” Ryder heard Jude say. Wickenden had his arm firmly around Jude, and Ryder turned away, his one responsibility attended to. Helen had kept her feet, but two other women had already swooned, men were shouting about forming a hunting party, and Ryder saw that things were quickly spiraling out of control. Rex was attempting to bring order to the situation, but few were listening and most were just drunk enough to be dangerous. It was only a matter of minutes before someone did something stupid.
As he had done earlier in the day, Ryder vaulted over the bar, this time to grab the rifle that was hung on the back wall. He opened it and found it was empty.
“Sahib,” the Indian barman called softly. Ryder looked down to find the man sitting comfortably on the floor tucked out of harm’s way. He handed up a box of ammunition. Ryder took up four rounds, loading two and slipping the others into his pocket before passing back the box.
“Do you not want more, sahib?”
Ryder shrugged. “I won’t have time to reload more than once.” He hefted himself over the bar again, landing lightly on his feet. At the door, Rex was still trying to restore calm. He caught sight of Ryder and waved him over with
