“Did you see the Times, by the way?”

“No, what?”

“They ran a small piece about you and Hilary leaving in the dead of night.”

“How funny!”

“It referred to you as-let me remember-as ‘Charles Lenox, notable for his successful intervention in the infamous murder of Bill Dabney and the disappearance of George Payson, as well as the final capture of the so-called September Society.’ In the clubs there was quite a buzz about your campaign.”

“What did people think?”

“That it was celebrity chasing by the Liberals, I’m afraid. Those who knew you emphasized your long interest in politics, but the general opinion was derisive, unfortunately.”

“I’ve dealt with worse, of course.”

Lenox saw McConnell eye the Scotch whisky. At that moment Lucy, the energetic waitress, sailed by. “Eating, Mr. Lenox?”

“I’d love something. Whatever looks good,” he said.

“Straightaway.”

“Is there much talk of Pierce and Carruthers?” asked Lenox.

“Well-you’ll understand I haven’t been lazing about Pall Mall. I only went by my club yesterday afternoon to escape the house. I do know Shreve”-this was the McConnells’ funereal and corpulent butler-“has been censoring a great deal of below-stairs gossip. I can’t imagine there’s any more tact evident in the high houses.”

Lenox laughed. “Of course not. Oh-I say, McConnell, would you mind if I was rude for a moment? I’ve been carrying this letter about with me all day looking for a moment to read it.”

McConnell acceded with a wan nod. It was the letter from Lord John Dallington, who for the space of four months or so had been filling an awkward and new role; he was Lenox’s apprentice.

It was a strange fit. Dallington was well known in London as a dissolute and disheveled, if charming, scion of the aristocracy and the eternal worry and disappointment of the Duke and Duchess of Marchmain, whose youngest son he was.