“He has a card.” Barnstable held it out to me between two fingers. Another mark of disapprobation—he delivered cards of Donata’s visitors on a silver salver.

I saw why Barnstable hadn’t wanted to tell me the man’s name. The card bore, in plain black script, Mr. Benjamin Molodzinski. Likely Barnstable hadn’t looked forward to wrapping his tongue around all the syllables. The card also proclaimed that Mr. Molodzinski had an office in a lane off Cornhill, in the City.

My curiosity was roused. An unusual name and an unusual visitor. I closed the card in my hand.

“I will speak to him. Thank you, Barnstable.”

I descended the two flights of stairs from my study, my knee protesting, and reached the ground floor.

The rear reception room, a tiny niche of a chamber behind the stairs, had no windows. I wondered what the box of a room had been meant to be when the house was built, but presently it was furnished with uncomfortable chairs and dimly lit, to encourage the unwanted visitor to give up and quickly seek his way out.

My visitor today had waited. I walked in and stopped in surprise.

Facing me was the man Denis’s men had pummeled then tossed into a carriage. His thick brown hair was snarled, and his face was bruised and bloody, one eye swollen shut.

“Forgive me, Captain,” the man said. He drew himself up with what dignity he could. “I took the liberty of inquiring who you were and where you lived, and I’m afraid I followed you home. Will you speak to me, sir?”

Chapter Five

Of course I would speak to him. I very much wanted to know all about him.

I bade Mr. Molodzinski follow me from the reception room to the main drawing room.

We remained on the ground floor—I did not want to upset Barnstable’s sensibilities by taking a stranger to the private rooms in the house. Nor did I want Mr. Molodzinski near my wife before I knew who he was and what he wanted.

It was Bartholomew, my valet, who brought in a bowl of water and cloths and doctored Molodzinski’s wounds as he sat in a straight-backed chair, towels draped over him. The man submitted to the treatment with good grace.

“You may speak in front of Bartholomew,” I said. “He is discreet.”

Bartholomew shot me a grateful glance. He was as curious as I was, I could see.

“I wish to thank you for intervening for me,” Molodzinski began. “It was good of you. And very brave.”

“Futile,” I said. “I didn’t prevent them working you over.”

“Ah.” Molodzinski waved a hand at his battered face. “This is nothing I have not experienced before. My large nose tends to attract men’s fists.”

I had supposed, with his name, that the man would be foreign, but his English was as clear and succinct as mine, and possessed the slight cant of London. No one who hadn’t grown up in this metropolis would speak so.

London, however, attracted men from all walks of life from all over the world. The long war with France had sent many a refugee to England’s shores, and those families settled in and began to produce generations of children. Molodzinski’s father might speak in a thick accent of some distant place on the Continent, but this man had grown up among Londoners.

Barnstable finished his ministrations but took his time with the bandages. He wanted to hear the man’s story.

“I owe Mr. Denis money,” the man confessed. “An ironic situation, as I am usually advising gentlemen about theirs. But I am afraid I owe him many thousands of pounds.”

I wondered if Molodzinski had come to touch me for blunt. Before I could think of a way to politely put him off, the man smiled weakly.

“Mr. Denis knew I would not be able to pay him back such a sum for many years, so he was happy to take my services in lieu. Only, there I have been remiss in paying him. This afternoon, he was showing his … er … impatience.”

“I see,” I said. “You have my sympathy. I am also often remiss in rendering my services to Mr. Denis. He shows similar impatience with me.”

“I thought so,” Molodzinski said. “You were very good to try to stop him.”

Bartholomew shot me a curious glance, wondering what on earth I’d done now. I quelled his look and returned to Molodzinski.

“What can I do for you, Mr. … Molodzinski? Have I got that right?”

Molodzinski looked impressed. “You are one of the few Englishmen who do not tangle my name in their mouths. My family is Polish, though we have lived in London for several generations. I feel quite English myself, though plenty do not consider me to be so.”

I understood why. While England’s shores were a safe haven for those of many countries, at the same time, anything un-English was looked at askance. Also, if I understood aright, he was a Jew.

Grenville had plenty of men of Hebrew origin in the circle of his acquaintance, those who kept to their religion as well as those who had joined the Church of England in order to further their careers.

In this enlightened age, laws were strict with regards to any one not in the C of E. A Jewish man could not stand for Parliament, vote, or practice certain trades. They could, however, attend their own houses of worship—the synagogues—and were not barred from gaining vast amounts of wealth, as had the famous Rothschild family or Moses Montefiore, Rothschild’s brother-in-law and successful businessman in his own right.

Molodzinski looked a man of far more modest means, though his clothes were well made and respectable enough.

“You have not told me why you sought me,” I said.

Molodzinski looked surprised. “No? I beg your pardon, sir. I only wished to thank you for trying to help me. It was kind of you. But also to warn you. Mr. Denis is a hard man. Do not anger him, I beg you. If you were in his house, then you owe him as well. Extricate yourself from him as quickly and completely as possible.”

Sound advice. I gave him a faint smile. “I am afraid your warning comes far too late. Mr. Denis has his hand well around my throat.”

Molodzinski’s expression turned to one of compassion. “Then I am sorry for you, sir. In that case, it was doubly courageous of you to come to my defense. If ever you need a favor, you have only to ask me, Captain. I am in your debt.”

He stood and held out his hand. I took it, looking into eyes that were ingenuous and sincere.

Bartholomew had managed to put a bandage on his face, which looked awkward against his flesh, but Molodzinski’s pride was undiminished.

I took his hand, felt his firm clasp, then the man nodded at me and took his leave.

Barnstable had unbent somewhat by the time we emerged, seeing that I’d received Molodzinski without concern, and he sent a footman running for a hackney. Bartholomew and I bundled Molodzinski into it. Molodzinski touched his hat, lifted his hand in a wave, then fell against the seat as the hackney jerked forward.

I was left wondering what on earth such a good-natured man had done to earn the wrath of James Denis.

***

My daughter, Gabriella, returned home from Lady Aline’s soon after that, her eyes alight with excitement.

“I am learning quite a lot on the pianoforte,” she said to me as I met her in the private parlor where the family usually gathered, though she and I were alone at the moment.

I watched Gabriella as she wandered about the room, too energetic to sit still. Her hair was glossy brown, a shade lighter than mine, but she had the Lacey brown eyes. Fortunately for her, she resembled her mother about the face, and had been spared my large, square jaw.

“This pleases you, does it?” I asked.

Gabriella turned to me and gave me a rueful smile. “I beg your pardon, sir. Lady Aline gives me so many attentions, as does Lady Donata, that it will quite turn my head.”