My husband called me a whale, kissed his mistress in public, and told me to “dust the library.” Then he strutted into New York’s most exclusive Diamond Gala thinking he was untouchable.

Vivien called Benedict Ashford.

He answered on the first ring. “Madam.”

He always called her that when they were working, although outside the structure of business he had long ago become something close to family. Benedict Ashford had one of those English voices that sounded as if it had been educated by walnut-paneled rooms and expensive disappointment. He was chief executive of the private London bank that managed most of the Sinclair architecture, and one of the few people in the world who knew exactly how much Vivien owned, where it was sheltered, and how quickly it could move.

“Kill the leak,” Vivien said.

“It will vanish,” Benedict replied. “I’ve already isolated the board member.”

“Good. Add the forged loan to Henderson’s packet. Everything. Federal angles included.”

“Already underway.”

Vivien let silence hold for a second. Then she said, more quietly, “How does the room look?”

“Full. Hungry. Bored. Perfect.”

“Any sign Preston suspects?”

“None.”

Of course not. Men like Preston rarely suspected the existence of plans that did not originate in their own heads.

Vivien ended the call and dialed Ruth Washington.

Ruth answered before the first full ring. “Tell me you’re not backing out.”