Slowly he turned to face the man who had accosted him, cursing himself for having grown careless since the end of the war. He should have known better. Though the fighting had ended on the battlefields of Europe, the stealthy world of plots, politics, and power was eternal.

He had been walking home from his club and it was late, past midnight. Dry leaves skimmed across the cobblestones, and a block away carriages rumbled through Hanover square, but Lucien was alone in the shadowy street with one-no, two-dark, hulking figures. The faint starlight reflected dully from the long barrels of the two pistols aimed at his heart.

Play for time. Find out who you're facing, and why. "Are we acquainted, sir?" Lucien asked politely.

"Not personal-like, but they say you've been looking for Harry Mirkin for nigh onto two years, so I decided it was time I introduced myself." The man gave a derisive snort. "I'm disappointed. They say you're called Lucifer because you're a dangerous devil, but you're just a whey-faced dandy, too pretty to scare a ten-year-old pickpocket in the East End."

"Sorry I don't meet your expectations. Reputations are often distorted." Lucien gestured at Mirkin with his ivory-headed cane. "For instance, rumor painted you as king of the London underworld. It was said that the French paid you to assassinate the Tory leaders, hoping that the government would collapse and Britain would withdraw from the war. Did rumor speak truly?"

"Aye, that's true," Mirkin said viciously. "And I would've succeeded if it hadn't been for you and your weasel informers. Failure cost me most of my gang, my position in the underworld, and the five thousand gold guineas I would have been paid if I had been successful. I was lucky to escape with my life."

"A good fee for a job, but a poor price for betraying your country," Lucien murmured. "I have wanted to find you, though I can't say that I looked very hard. I've had more important things to do."