Sir Malcolm stands in the spot that he visits so frequently these days that he fears a depression has been worn into the floor beneath him. One hand on his hip, the other clutching a glass of fine scotch, he stares at the map stretched across his desk.

Africa.

The Dark Continent had captured his imagination and his spirit over and over again, right up until it claimed the life of his son. And now even though his heart burns to leave the gray, sooty streets of London for the desert or the veldt, there is no way he could bring himself to leave. Not when his last remaining child's life and soul are in danger. Not while there is still so much work to do.

Not while there is Vanessa to mind.

Sir Malcolm's head lifts as he hears the young woman enter the house. He glances at the clock. "You're late."