Augustus was no antiquarian, but he did recall hearing somewhere that those jars had been used to contain the internal organs of the deceased. He made a mental note to stay away from the punch.

The same couldn’t be said for the rest of the company. The punch was flowing freely, the party the sort that would be termed in England “a sad crush,” fashionable people jostling one against the other, doing their best to see and be seen. Balcourt might not be admired, but he was known to set a lavish table and he was not without his contacts at court.

It was easy enough to waft his way through the crowd, the eccentric poet in his own private fog, with the occasional murmur of “The muse! I must set it down!”

No one would think anything of finding him in Balcourt’s study. When the muse demanded…

Augustus closed the door of Balcourt’s study behind him, shutting out the revelry without. It was quiet here, the drapes closed, the only light the candles that had been left burning, as a matter of course, in the sconces above the hearth. Balcourt was no scholar. The only thing in the room that didn’t show a fine film of dust was the decanter.

The man couldn’t be more different from his cousin, Miss Jane Wooliston.

The Pink Carnation.

The door racketed open as Horace de Lilly came charging in as though all the hounds of hell were behind him, the nasty, yippy ones with particularly pointy teeth.

Augustus slammed the door behind him, turning the key in the lock. “What in the blazes was that all about? Aren’t you supposed to be in Saint-Cloud?”

“It is of the most urgent!” Horace declared importantly.

It had bloody well better be. Junior agents weren’t meant to make direct contact with their seniors. Especially not in such an exuberant and noisy fashion. If Horace had something to report to him, there were channels for that. Quiet channels. Discreet channels. Unfortunately, to ignore the other man now would serve nothing. Whatever damage had been done was done.