Quarry was on the qui vive;Grey had no sooner been announced than he found himself seized by the arm and drawn out of the slowly moving reception line, into the shelter of a monstrous plant that had been stood in the corner of the ballroom, where it consorted with several of its fellows in the manner of a small jungle.

“You came, then,” Quarry said, unnecessarily.

Seeing the haggard aspect of the man, Grey said merely, “Yes. What news?”

Fatigue and distress tended merely to sharpen Grey’s fine-cut features, but gave Quarry an air of snappish ferocity, making him look like a large, ill-tempered dog.

“You saw that—that—unspeakable piece of excrement?”

“The broadsheet? Yes; where did you get it?”

“They are all over London; not only that particular excrescence—many others, as vile or worse.”

Grey felt a prick of deep unease.

“With similar accusations?”

“That Robert Gerald was a pederast? Yes, and worse; that he was a member of a notorious sodomitical society, a gathering for the purpose of…well, you’ll know the sort of thing? Disgusting!”

Grey could not tell whether this last epithet was applied to the existence of such societies, or to the association of Gerald’s name with one. In consequence, he chose his words with care.

“Yes, I have heard of such associations.”

Grey did know, though the knowledge was not personal; such societies were said to be common—he knew of taverns and back rooms aplenty, to say nothing of the more notorious mollyhouses, where…Still, fastidiousness and caution had prevented any close inquiry into these assemblies.

“Need I say that—that such accusations have no truth—not the slightest pretention to truth?” Quarry spoke with some difficulty, avoiding Grey’s eye. Grey laid a hand on Quarry’s sleeve.

“No, you need not say so. I am certain of it,” he said quietly. Quarry glanced up, giving him a half-embarrassed smile, and clasped his hand briefly.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rasping.

“But if it be not so,” Grey observed, giving Quarry time to recover himself, “then such rapid profusion of rumor has the taste about it of an organized calumny. And that in itself is very strange, do you not think?”

Evidently not; Quarry looked blankly at him.

“Someone wished not only to destroy Robert Gerald,” Grey explained, “but thought it necessary also to blacken his name. Why? The man is dead; who would think it needful to murder his reputation, as well?”

Quarry looked startled, then frowned, brows drawing close together in the effort of thought.

“’Strewth,” he said slowly. “Damme, you’re right. But who…?” He stopped, looking thoughtfully out over the assemblage of guests.

“Is the prime minister here?” Grey peered through the drooping foliage. It was a small but brilliant party, and one of a particular kind; no more than forty guests, and these all drawn from the echelons of power. No mincing fops or gadding henwits; ladies there were, to be sure, providing grace and beauty—but it was the men who were of consequence. Several ministers were in attendance, the sea lord, an assistant minister of finance…He stopped, feeling as though someone had just punched him hard in the belly.

Quarry was muttering in his ear, explaining something about the prime minister’s absence, but Grey was no longer attending. He fought the urge to step back farther into the shadows.

George Everett was looking well—very well indeed. Wig and powder set off the blackness of his brows and the fine dark eyes below them. A firm chin and a long, mobile mouth—Grey’s index finger twitched involuntarily, tracing the line of it in memory.

“Are you well, Grey?” Quarry’s gruff voice recalled him to himself.

“Yes. A trifling indisposition, no more.” Grey pulled his eyes away from Everett’s slim figure, striking in black and primrose. It was only a matter of time, after all; he had known they would meet again—and at least he had not been taken unawares. With an effort, he turned his attention back to Quarry.

“The news you mentioned. Is it—”

Quarry interrupted, gripping his arm and pulling him out from the shelter of the trees into the babble of the party.

“Hark, here is Lucinda. Come, she wishes to meet you.”

Lady Lucinda Joffrey was small and round, her dark hair worn unpowdered, sleek to the skull, and her ringlets fastened with an ornament of pheasant’s feathers that went well with her russet gown. Her face was plump and rather plain, though it might have some claim to character, had there been much life to it. Instead, swollen lids drooped over eyes smudged with shadows she had not bothered to disguise.

Lord John bowed over her hand, wondering again as he did so what had caused her to open her house this evening; plainly she was in great distress.

“My lord,” she murmured, in response to his courtesies. Then she lifted her eyes and he found himself startled. Her eyes were beautiful, almond-shaped and clear gray in color—and despite their reddened lids, clear and piercing with intelligence.

“Harry tells me that you were with Robert when he died,” she said, softly but clearly, holding him with those eyes. “And that you have offered your help in finding the dastard who has done this thing.”

“Indeed. I offer you my most sincere condolences, my lady.”

“I thank you, sir.” She nodded toward the room, bright with guests and blazing candles. “You will find it strange, no doubt, that we should revel in such fashion, and my cousin so recently and despicably slain?” Grey began to make the expected demur, but she would not allow it, going on before he could speak.

“It was my husband’s wish. He said we must—that to shrink and cower before such slander would be to grant it credence. He insisted that we must meet it boldly, or suffer ourselves from the stain of scandal.” Her lips pressed tight, a handkerchief crumpled in her hand, but no tears welled in the gray eyes.

“Your husband is wise.” That was a thought; Sir Richard Joffrey was an influential member of Parliament, with a shrewd appreciation of politics, a great acquaintance with those in power—and the money to influence them. Could the killing of Gerald and this posthumous effort to discredit him be in some way a blow at Sir Richard?

Grey hesitated; he had not yet told Quarry of Gerald’s request at the club. There is no one I can confide in,Gerald had said—and presumably included his cousin by marriage therein. But Gerald was dead, and Grey’s obligation was now vengeance, not confidence. The musicians had paused; with a tilt of the head, Grey drew his companions back into the privacy of the jungle.

“Madam, I had the honor of a very brief acquaintance with your cousin. Still, when I met him…” In a few words, he acquainted his hearers with Robert Gerald’s last request.

“Does either of you know what his concern might have been?” Grey asked, looking from one to the other. The musicians were starting up, the strains of fiddle and flute rising above the rumble of conversation.

“He asked you to meet him on the ’Change?” A shadow passed over Quarry’s face. If Gropecunt Street was the main thoroughfare for female prostitution, the Royal Exchange was its male counter-part—after dark, at least.

“That means nothing, Harry,” Lucinda said. Her grief had been subsumed by interest, plump figure drawn erect. “The ’Change is a meeting place for every kind of intrigue. I am sure Robert’s choice of meeting place had nothing to do with—with these scurrilous accusations.” Lady Lucinda frowned. “But I know of nothing that would have caused my cousin such concern—do you, Harry?”

“If I did, I would have said so,” Quarry said irritably. “Since he did not think me fit to confide in, though—”

“You mentioned some news,” Grey interrupted, seeking to avert acrimony. “What was that?”

“Oh.” Quarry stopped, irritation fading. “I’ve gleaned a notion of what Bubb-Dodington’s invitation consisted.” Quarry cast a glance of unconcealed dislike toward a knot of men gathered talking at the opposite side of the room. “And if my informant be correct, ’twas far from innocent.”