“More’s the pity,” snapped Grentham’s military attaché, who was standing by his superior’s desk, arranging the daily surveillance reports. “Bloody hell, if Prinny can’t control his prodigious appetites, he could at least have the decency to fall victim in his own establishment.”

The assistant didn’t dare respond.

Leaning back in his chair, Grentham tapped his elegant fingertips together and stared out the bank of windows overlooking the parade ground. Rain pelted against the misted glass, turning the vast expanse of gravel to a blur of watery gray. Beyond it, the bare trees in St. James’s Park jutted up through the fog, dark and menacing, like the jagged teeth of some ancient dragon.

“How long until he can be moved from Lady Spencer’s town house?” he asked slowly.

“Er . . .” The assistant consulted the sheaf of papers in his hands. “Another two or three days.”

“Bloody, bloody hell,” swore the attaché. “If word of this reaches the newspapers—”

“Thank you, Major Crandall.” The tapping ceased—as did all other sounds in the room. Turning to his assistant, Grentham continued with his inquiries. “I take it that the other guests have been sworn to absolute secrecy, Jenkins?”

“Yes, milord. And they’ve all promised to be silent as the grave.”

“Excellent,” he replied mildly. “Oh, and do remind them that they had better be, else their carcasses will be rotting on a transport ship bound for the Antipodes.”

“Y-yes, milord.” The young man was new to the job and hadn’t yet dared ask what had become of his predecessor. Rumors of Grentham’s ruthlessness were rife throughout the halls of the Horse Guards building, and it was whispered that even the Prime Minister feared to provoke his ire.