When Hutchinson’s recitation came to an end, the duke held out his glass for a refill. “Now, tell me what to expect from this curious woman. If she’s a widow, she must not be in her first blush. And I gather she isn’t a lady of the night or an actress. Would she be predisposed to some small gift-flowers, candy, a bit of jewelry perhaps? You’re certain, too, she knows who I am.”

“I assume so, Your Grace,” Hutchinson replied, pouring a goodly bumper of whiskey into the outstretched glass. “She cited you by name as she consigned you to Hades. As to her age, she’s not young, but she’s not old; she has reddish hair and is above-average height, I believe,” the barrister explained like a man without an ounce of the Lothario in his soul-a man incapable of describing his wife or daughters without a photograph in hand. “In terms of a gift, I confess, sir, you might know about that better than I.” Groveland was not called The Monk without express and explicit irony.

“Is there anything about her deceased husband or her background that might be useful for me to know? The bookshop is a relatively recent addition to the neighborhood if I’m not mistaken.” He often walked by it en route to Bond Street.

“It’s been there almost seven years, Your Grace. Edward St. Vincent was a poet of some small fame thanks to the Queen’s interest in his work, but apparently he was a gamester as well and not a very good one. There were rumors about his death-that he may have taken a hand in ending his life, but it’s impossible to know, of course. Not that losses at cards aren’t often a precursor to self-destruction. We all know such instances.

“As for the widow herself, she is of respectable birth. She enjoys the title, the Honorable Rosalind Pitt-Riverston, but her family is without fortune. Her father, Baron Pitt-Riverston, dabbles in the natural sciences I’ve been told. In some remote area of Yorkshire, I believe.”