‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘I don’t have to.’ Max was protecting Miss Hart from the big bad wolf; it surprised him. ‘Look,’ Dominic said a moment later, ‘I’m not looking for either a unicorn or a semi-virgin because they don’t exist. She knows what she’s doing.’

‘I’m not so sure. But she’s really a nice kid, Nick. Don’t fuck with her.’

‘Even if she says yes?’

‘I’d like to say, even then, but I suppose she has a mind of her own. She’s just not in your league, Nick. So cut her some slack.’

While the state of Kate’s love life was being discussed, Kate and Greta were walking arm in arm down a brightly lit lane, busy with foot traffic. A tour guide ahead of them was leading a group of Asian couples through the area, keeping up a steady discourse for her curious audience. Groups of college kids with backpacks were everywhere, sitting on the kerbs, strolling down the street, buying weed from hustlers. Some sailors were arguing in front of what looked to be a brothel, ordinary tourists of every age and stripe wandered up and down the warren of small alleys leading off the main thoroughfare. Three-and four-storey buildings lined the narrow streets, and in large, neon-lit windows, women of every age, size and description were on display. Some were clothed, others were nude, and no matter where they were from, from Sweden to Angola to Holland, their services were all for sale.

Kate found the open display of women as merchandise visually shocking at first. But no one seemed to notice and she reminded herself that cultural mores differed from country to country. She understood as well that the sex trade was government-supervised, lucrative and regulated by the police. Several policemen had been stationed at the entrance to the area as affirmation of their authority. All Kate could think of was that she was a long, long way from home.

And clearly too sober.

Not that her sobriety was of any concern to her companions who suddenly veered to the right and surged in a wave towards a bright red door in a building that bore neither a lighted window, a sign nor a number.

Max quickly moved ahead to outdistance the young man in the lead as he shoved open the red door. Walking up to a well-dressed man stationed behind a desk in the large foyer, Max spoke to him briefly. The concierge/receptionist/bouncer looked more like a stockbroker than a guard, Kate thought as she and Greta entered the building. The black marble foyer looked more like an Italian palazzo than a nightclub, and the huge vase of flowers perfuming the air must have cost a small fortune.

As Max finished speaking, the elegantly dressed man glanced over everyone’s heads, and nodded at Dominic who stood in the back. Then the man waved them through black leather-padded doors that were thrown open by two uniformed employees. And they entered a room with subdued lighting, posh decor, affluent patrons and spectacularly naked women.

A beautiful woman, nude except for a navel ring, beckoned an equally nude coat-check girl to take their coats. Then she escorted them to two large black velvet banquettes set against a mirrored wall. As everyone found seats, the hostess raised a manicured finger and signalled another equally dazzling, unclad woman.

After ordering several bottles of Cristal, Max exchanged a few words with their server. As the woman left, he sat back and gave a brief nod to Dominic.

Greta, Kate, Max, Dominic, Werner and his wife sat in one banquette, the other held the noisier half of the dinner party. Dominic and Max were the last to take their seats and whether by chance or design, Dominic sat beside Kate.

It was an intimate venue with an unobtrusive bar to one side, six banquettes lining the walls, and four marble-topped tables fronting a small stage. The clientele was well-dressed and cosmopolitan, the conversation hushed. Even the rowdy members of the Knight party had instinctively quieted.

A small stage, framed in gilded pilasters and rich azure silk draperies, reminded Kate of Marie Antoinette’s little theatre at Versailles. Sofia Coppola’s movie clearly had left its mark on her. The stage set represented a richly furnished Victorian sitting room: a table set for tea, a crimson brocade chaise, a spinet and a leather padded bench, sumptuous carpets and two lace-curtained windows stage right, draped in royal blue silk.

The black velvet banquette was soft as down, the atmosphere restful, the noise level muffled. If the servers weren’t nude and if a man and woman in period costume hadn’t walked onto the stage just then, Kate would have thought she was drinking champagne in someone’s living room.

But as the little play began to unfold, she realized she was about to witness an erotic Victorian tableau.

The couple began having tea, the man, as host, explaining to the young woman that his sister had sent her regrets at the last minute. ‘I sent a message to your home, but too late, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, dear.’ The pretty blonde, dressed in white ruffled muslin, made a little O with her mouth. ‘I really shouldn’t stay.’

‘Come, Liza, we’ve been friends for years. Let me pour you a sip of sherry. It’s from Papa’s cellar.’

‘I shouldn’t.’ She flushed a rosy pink.

And so it went, the couple drinking more sherry than tea, the young lady becoming more comfortable and talkative, the man full of compliments and small courtesies. The acting was really quite good, enough so that Kate was drawn into the scene despite her reservations. She wasn’t alone in her interest. The audience was captivated.

‘I have to marry Lord Richmond, you know,’ the actress suddenly blurted out, her eyes welling up. ‘And I hate him. He’s old and ugly.’