The duchess was one of Lady Jane’s very closest friends, and so for years Lenox had known Dallington without ever paying him undue attention. He was a short, trim, and handsome man, whose face was unblemished by his dissipation, dark eyed and dark haired, something of a dandy; a perfect carnation always sat in his buttonhole.

Most third sons of the aristocracy chose the military or the clergy, but Dallington, in part encouraged by his parents’ leniency, had repudiated these traditional paths and instead devoted the first years of his twenties to the Beargarden Club and pretty young girls. Then, shockingly, one day in September he had approached Lenox and requested an education in detective work. Lenox had warned the lad that it was a profession whose only rewards were internal, that it took dedication to work at a vocation held in such low esteem. Dallington pointed out that his own reputation was not high, and Lenox had taken him on. Since then, the lad had been surprisingly adept at his new work, and diligent besides, even if there had been several rocky moments. Those, though, were forgotten: Dallington had either saved Lenox’s life or come close to it, and their bond-indeed, their friendship-was now secure.

His letter was brief.

Lenox, I once met Simon Pierce at a party-crashing bore. Nevertheless, one does feel a certain sorrow. Are you doing anything about this? I would like to help, if so. Hope you had a jolly Christmas and everything like that. Dallington

This note raised in Lenox a sense of guilt, which combined with the poor chances of his campaign made him feel suddenly that his real place was on the trail of whoever had murdered the two London journalists, not here courting votes among people who had no affection for his presence.

“From Dallington,” he said. “Asks about the journalists. I do feel I should be there, rather.”