Admiral Sir Edward Vernon, with a small fleet of ships from the British Navy, captured the port [of Porto Bello] in 1739... Bonfires were lit in all the major cities to celebrate the victory... streets and districts were named after Vernon and Portobello.

--Whetlor and Bartlett, from Portobello

He ran, as the others ran, but he carried with him something they did not. History, and hatred, honed to a bright and blazing point.

Portobello took on a different character once the shops closed for the day, Alex Dunn decided as he turned into the road from the mews where he had his small flat. He paused for a moment, debating whether to go up the road to the Calzone's at Notting Hill Gate for a celebratory pizza, but it wasn't the sort of place one really wanted to go on one's own. Instead, he turned to the right, down the hill, passing the shop fronts barred for the night and the closed gates of the café run by St. Peter's Church. Bits of refuse littered the street from the day's traffic, giving it a desolate air.

But tomorrow it would be different; by daybreak the stallholders would be set up for Saturday market, and in the arcades, dealers would sell everything from antique silver to Beatles memorabilia. Alex loved the early-morning anticipation, the smell of coffee and cigarettes in the arcade cafés, the sense that this might be the day to make the sale of a lifetime. As he might, he thought with a surge of excitement, because today he'd made the buy of his lifetime.

His step quickened as he turned into Elgin Crescent and saw the familiar fa\\a231ade of Otto's Café -- at least that was how the regulars referred to the place; the faded sign read merely Café. Otto did a bustling daytime business in coffee, sandwiches, and pastries, but in the evening he provided simple meals much favored by the neighborhood residents.

Once inside, Alex brushed the moisture from his jacket and took a seat in the back at his favorite table -- favored because he liked the nearness of the gas fire. Unfortunately, the café's furniture had not been designed to suit anyone over five feet tall. Surprising, really, when you looked at Otto, a giant of a man. Did he never sit in his own chairs? Alex couldn't recall ever seeing him do so; Otto always seemed to hover, as he did now, wiping his brow with the hem of his apron, his bald head gleaming even in the dim light.

"Sit down, Otto, please," Alex said, testing his hypothesis. "Take a break."

Otto glanced towards Wesley, his second-in-command, serving the customers who had just come in, then flipped one of the delicate curve-backed chairs round and straddled it with unexpected grace.

"Nasty out, is it?" The café owner's wide brow furrowed as he took in Alex's damp state. Even though Otto had lived all of his adult life in London, his voice still carried an inflection of his native Russia.

"Can't quite make up its mind to pour. What sort of warming things have you on the menu tonight?"

"Beef and barley soup; that and the lamb chops should do the trick."

"Sold. And I'll have a bottle of your best Burgundy. No plonk for me tonight."

"Alex, my friend! Are you celebrating something?"

"You should have seen it, Otto. I'd run down to Sussex to see my aunt when I happened across an estate sale in the village. There was nothing worth a second look in the house itself; then, on the tables filled with bits of rubbish in the garage, I saw it." Savoring the memory, Alex closed his eyes. "A blue-and-white porcelain bowl, dirt-encrusted, filled with garden trowels and bulb planters. It wasn't even tagged. The woman in charge sold it to me for five pounds."

"Not rubbish, I take it?" Otto asked, an amused expression on his round face.

Alex looked round and lowered his voice. "Seventeenth-century delft, Otto. That's English delft, with a small 'd,' rather than Dutch. I'd put it at around 1650. And underneath the dirt, not a chip or a crack to be found. It's a bloody miracle, I'm telling you."

It was the moment Alex had lived for since his aunt had taken him with her to a jumble sale on his tenth birthday. Spying a funny dish that looked as if someone had taken a bite out of its edge, he had been so taken with it that he'd spent all his birthday money on its purchase. His aunt Jane had contributed a book on porcelain, from which he'd learned that his find was an English delft barber's bowl, probably early eighteenth-century Bristol ware. In his mind, Alex had seen all the hands and lives through which the bowl had passed, and in that instant he had been hooked.

The childhood passion had stayed with him through school, through university, through a brief tenure lecturing in art history at a small college. Then he had abandoned the steady salary for a much more precarious -- and infinitely more interesting -- life as a dealer in English porcelain.

"So, will this bowl make your fortune? If you can bear to part with it, that is," Otto added with a twinkle born of long association with dealers.

Alex sighed. "Needs must, I'm afraid. And I have an idea who might be interested."

Otto gazed at him for a moment with an expression Alex couldn't quite fathom. "You're thinking Karl Arrowood would want it."

"It's right up Arrowood's alley, isn't it? You know what Karl's like; he won't be able to resist." Alex imagined the bowl elegantly displayed in the window of Arrowood Antiques, one more thing of beauty for Karl to possess, and the bitterness of his envy seeped into his soul.

"Alex--" Otto seemed to hesitate, then leaned closer, his dark eyes intent. "I do know what he's like, perhaps more than you. You'll forgive my interfering, but I've heard certain things about you and Karl's young wife. You know what this place is like" -- his gesture took in more than the café -- "nothing stays secret for long. And I fear you do not realize what you're dealing with. Karl Arrowood is a ruthless man. It doesn't do to come between him and the things he owns."

"But--" Alex felt himself flushing. "How--" But he knew it didn't matter how, only that his affair with Dawn Arrowood had become common knowledge, and that he'd been a fool to think they could keep it hidden.

If the discovery of the delft barber's bowl had been an epiphanic experience, so had been his first glimpse of Dawn, one day when he'd stopped by the shop to deliver a creamware dinner service.

Dawn had been helping the shop assistant with the window displays. At the sight of her, Alex had stood rooted to the pavement, transfixed. Never had he seen anything so beautiful, so perfect; and then she had met his eyes through the glass and smiled.

After that, she'd begun coming by his stall on Saturday mornings to chat. She'd been friendly rather than coy or flirtatious, and he'd immediately sensed her loneliness. His weeks began to revolve around the anticipation of her Saturday visits, but never had he expected more than that. And then one day she'd shown up unannounced at his flat. "I shouldn't be doing this," she'd said, ducking her head so that wisps of blond hair hid her eyes, but she had come inside, and now he couldn't imagine his life without her.

"Does Karl know?" he asked Otto.

The other man shrugged. "I think you would know if he did. But you can be sure he will find out. And I would hate to lose a good customer. Alex, take my advice, please. She is lovely, but she is not worth your life."

"This is England, for heaven's sake, Otto! People don't go round bumping people off because they're narked about... well, you know."

Otto stood and carefully reversed his chair. "I wouldn't be so sure, my friend," he replied before disappearing into the kitchen.

"Bollocks!" Alex muttered, resolved to slough off Otto's warning, and he ate his dinner and drank his wine with determination.

His good humor somewhat restored, he walked slowly back to his flat, thinking of the other find he'd made that day -- not a steal as the delft bowl had been, but a lovely acquisition just the same, an Art Deco teapot by the English potter Clarice Cliff in a pattern he had seen Dawn admire. It would be his Christmas gift to her, an emblem of their future together.

It was only as he reached the entrance to his mews that a more disturbing thought came to him. If Karl Arrowood learned the truth, was it his own safety which should concern him?

Bryony Poole waited until the door had closed behind the final client of the day, a woman whose cat had an infected ear, before she broached her idea to Gavin. Sitting down opposite him in the surgery's narrow office cubicle, she shifted awkwardly, trying to find room for her long legs and booted feet. "Look, Gav, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

Her boss, a bullet-headed man with shoulders that strained the fabric of his white lab coat, looked up from the chart he was finishing. "That sounds rather ominous. Not leaving me for greener pastures, are you?"

"No, nothing like that." Gavin Farley had taken Bryony on as his assistant in the small surgery just after her graduation from veterinary college two years ago, and she still considered herself lucky to have the job. Hesitantly, she continued. "It's just, well, you know how many of the homeless people have dogs?"

"Is this a quiz?" he asked skeptically. "Or are you hitting me up for a donation to the RSPCA?"

"No... not exactly. But I have been thinking a good bit about the fact that these people can't afford care for their animals. I'd like to do some--"

She had his attention now.

"Bryony, that's extremely admirable of you, but surely if these people can afford a pint and a packet of ciggies they can bring a dog in for treatment."

"That's unfair, Gavin! These people sleep in the street because the night shelters won't take their dogs. They do what they can. And you know how much our costs have risen."

"So what can you possibly do?"

"I want to run a free clinic every week, say on Sunday afternoon, to treat minor ailments and injuries--"

"Does this have something to do with your friend Marc Mitchell?"

"I haven't discussed it with him," Bryony replied, her defenses rising.

"And where exactly did you think you'd hold this clinic?"

She flushed. "Well, I had thought Marc might let me use his place..." Marc Mitchell ran a soup kitchen for the homeless -- "rough sleepers" the government liked to call them, as if they had voluntarily chosen to take a permanent camping holiday -- down the bottom end of the Portobello Road. Of course there was the Sally Army further up, but in the business of providing for the needy there was no such thing as competition. There was never enough to go round. Marc gave them a hot lunch and supper, as well as whatever basic medical supplies and personal items he could get. But perhaps most important was his willingness to listen to them. There was an earnestness about him that encouraged the baring of ravaged souls, and sometimes that in itself was enough to start a person on the road to recovery.

"And how exactly did you intend to pay for the supplies and medications?" Gavin asked.

"Out of my own pocket, to begin with. Then maybe I could ask some of the local merchants for donations."

"You might get a bob or two," he conceded grudgingly. "I don't imagine having mange-ridden dogs hanging about outside one's shop draws in the customers. But say you can get this off the ground. What are you going to do once you form a relationship with these people, then they begin to show up here with a badly injured dog, or an animal with cancer?"

"I -- I hadn't thought..."

Gavin shook his head. "We can't cover catastrophic care, Bryony. We just survive as it is, with the increase in rents and your salary. There's no room for noble gestures."

"I'll deal with that when I come to it," she answered firmly. "If nothing else, I can always offer them euthanasia."

"And pay the cost out of your own pocket? You're too noble for your own good." Gavin sighed with resignation as he finished the chart and stood. "I suspected that the first time I saw you."

Bryony smiled. "But you hired me."

"So I did, and I've not regretted it. You're a good vet, and good with the clients, too, which is damn near as important. But..."

"What?"

"It's just that we walk a fine line in this business between compassion and common sense, and I'd hate to see you cross it. It will eat you up, Bryony, this feeling of never being able to do enough. I've seen it happen to tougher vets than you. My advice is, you do the best job you can, then you go home, watch the telly, have a pint. You find some way to let it go."

"Thanks, Gav. I'll keep that in mind. Promise."

She mulled over his words as she walked the short distance from the clinic to her flat in Powis Square. Of course she knew where to draw the line; of course she realized she couldn't help every animal. But was she taking on more than she could manage, both emotionally and financially? And how much was she motivated by an unacknowledged desire to impress Marc Mitchell?

They'd become good friends in the past few months, she and Marc, often meeting for dinner or a coffee. But he'd never displayed what Bryony could really interpret as romantic intentions, and she thought she'd convinced herself that she didn't mind. Marc, unlike Gavin, had not learned to draw the line between work and home. His work was his life: Bryony suspected there was no room left for anything more demanding than friendship.

The pang of disappointment that thought caused her was so intense that she shied away from it. She just wanted to help the animals, that was all, and if it so happened that it brought her a bit closer to Marc, so be it.

Inspector Gemma James left the Notting Hill Police Station at six o'clock on the dot, an occurrence unusual enough to cause the desk sergeant to raise his eyebrows.

"What's up, guv?" he asked. "Got a hot date?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," she replied, grinning. "And for once I'm determined not to be late."

Kincaid had rung her from the Yard an hour ago and asked her to meet him at an address a few blocks from the station. He'd given her no explanation, only insisted that she be prompt, and that alone had been enough to arouse her curiosity. A superintendent leading Scotland Yard's murder inquiries, Duncan's schedule was as demanding as hers, if not more so, and they were both accustomed to working long hours.

Of course she had been trying to cut back, due to what Kincaid only half-teasingly referred to as her "delicate condition," but without much success. She had no intention of announcing her pregnancy to her superiors until she absolutely had to, and then she'd be even less inclined to beg off work.

And if an unplanned pregnancy weren't disastrous enough for the career prospects of a newly promoted detective inspector, Gemma suspected her unmarried state would garner even less favor with her superiors. At least when Toby had come along she'd been married to his dad.

Checking the address she'd scribbled on a scrap of paper, she walked down Ladbroke Grove until she reached St. John's Gardens, then turned left. The old church stood sentinel on the summit of Notting Hill, and even on such a dreary evening Gemma loved the calm of the place. But Kincaid's directions sent her onwards, down the hill to the west, and after a few blocks she began checking the house numbers.

She saw his MG first, its top buttoned up tight against the damp, and then across the street the address he had given her. It was the end house of a terrace, but faced on St. John's rather than the cross street. Porch light and street lamp illuminated dark brown brick set off by gleaming white trim, and a front door the vivid color of cherries. Through the trees that grew between the house and the pavement, she glimpsed a small balcony on the second floor.

Duncan opened the door before she could ring. "What, are you clairvoyant?" she demanded, laughing, as he kissed her cheek.

"Among my many talents." He took her damp jacket and hung it on an iron coat rack in the hall.

"What's this all about? Are we meeting someone here?"

"Not exactly," he answered. His grin made her think of her four-year-old son concealing a surprise. "Let's have a look round, shall we?"

The kitchen lay to the left, a cheerful, yellow room with a scrubbed pine table and a dark blue, oil-fired cooker. Gemma's heart contracted in a spasm of envy. It was perfect, just the sort of kitchen she had always longed for. She gave a lingering look back as Kincaid urged her into the hall.

The dining and sitting rooms had been opened into one long space with deep windows and French doors that Gemma presumed must lead to a garden. The dining furniture had an air of Proven\\a231al; in the sitting room, a comfortably worn sofa and two armchairs faced a gas fire, and bookcases climbed to the ceiling. In her imagination, she saw the shelves filled with books, the fire lit.

"Nice, yes?" Kincaid queried.

Gemma glanced up at him, her suspicions growing. "Mmmm."

Undeterred, he continued his tour. "And here, tucked in behind the kitchen, a little loo." When she had dutifully admired the facilities, he took her into the last room on the left, a small study or library. But there were no books on these shelves, just as there had been no dishes in the kitchen, no personal possessions or photographs in the dining and sitting area.

"I'd put the telly here, wouldn't you?" he went on cheerfully. "So as not to spoil the atmosphere of the sitting room."

Gemma turned to face him. "Duncan, are you giving up policing for estate agenting? I'm not going a step further until you tell me what this is all about!"

"First, tell me if you like it, love. Do you think you could live here?"

"Of course I like it! But you know what property values are like in this area -- there's no way we could afford something like this even if we pooled our salaries--"

"Just wait before you make a judgment. See the rest of the house."

"But--"

"Trust me."

Following him up the stairs to the first floor, she mulled over her situation. She must make a change, she knew that. The garage flat she rented was much too small for another child, and Kincaid's Hampstead flat was no more suitable -- especially since it looked as though his twelve-year-old son would be moving in with him over the holidays.

Since she had told Kincaid about the baby, they had talked about living together, combining families, but Gemma had found herself unwilling to face the prospect of such momentous change just yet.

"Two good-sized bedrooms and a bath on this floor." Kincaid was opening doors and turning on lights for her inspection. They were children's rooms, obviously, but again the walls bore pale patches where pictures and posters had been removed.

"Now for the pièce de résistance." Taking her hand, he led her up to the top floor.

Gemma stood riveted in the doorway. The entire top floor had been converted to a master suite, open and airy, with the balcony she'd seen from the street at the front.

"There's more." Kincaid opened another set of French doors and Gemma stepped out onto a small roof garden that overlooked the treetops. "That's a communal garden beyond the back garden. You can walk right into it."

Gemma breathed out a sigh of delight. "Oh, the boys would love it. But it can't be possible... can it?"

"It very well might be -- at least for five years. This house belongs to the guv's sister--"

"Chief Superintendent Childs?" Denis Childs was Kincaid's superior at the Yard, and Gemma's former boss as well.

"--whose husband has just accepted a five-year contract in Singapore, some sort of high-tech firm. They don't want to sell the house, but they do want it well looked after, and who better than two police officers vouched for by the Chief Super himself?"

"But we still couldn't afford--"

"It's a reasonable rent."

"But what about your flat?"

"I'd lease it for a good deal more than the mortgage, I imagine."

"What about child-minding for Toby? Without Hazel--"

"There's a good infant school just down the road from the station. And a good comprehensive for Kit not too far away. Now, any other objections?" He grasped her shoulders and looked down into her eyes.

"No... it's just... it seems too good to be true."

"You can't hold the future at bay forever, love. And we won't disappoint you. I promise."

Perhaps he was right... No! She knew he was right. When Toby's father had left her, alone with a new infant and no support, she had resolved never to depend on anyone again. But Kincaid had never failed her in any way -- why should she not trust him in this, as well? Gemma let herself relax into his arms.

"Blue-and-yellow dishes in the kitchen," she murmured against his chest. "And a bit of paint in the bedrooms, don't you think?"

He nuzzled her hair. "Is that a yes?"

She felt herself teetering on the edge of a precipice. Once committed, the safety of her old life would be gone. There could be no turning back. But she no longer had the luxury of putting off the decision until she had exorcised the very last smidgen of doubt. With that realization came a most unexpected flood of relief, and an unmistakable fizz of excitement.

"Yes," she told him. "Yes, I suppose it is."