Gautier, a fine-boned Frenchman who had, last summer, efficiently bandaged my hands after an impromptu boxing match, responded to Grenville's summons with perfect equanimity. He studied the ring and the jeweler's mark inside for a time, before he handed back the ring and announced it was the work of Mr. Neumann of Grafton Street.

"Excellent, Gautier, thank you," Grenville said. He flipped the ring in the air, caught it. "Tell Matthias to run and fetch Mr. Neumann here."

Gautier bowed, took this instruction in stride, and glided from the room.

"It's a bit late, is it not?" I asked.

Grenville closed the ring in his fist. "I am certain your Mr. Thompson of the Thames Patrol wishes you to be quick. Besides, the owner of this ring might be under my very roof right now. Best to find him and discover how much he knows right away, is it not?"

Grenville's surmise proved to be the case. While I knew his Grenville's real motive was his curiosity, I was happy that he had enough power to drag a respectable jeweler out of his bed in the middle of a rainy night and bring him here to be quizzed.

The man, middle-aged, with a handsome face running to fat, acquiesced to Grenville's request without protest. He was a businessman, after all. Any connection with Grenville, no matter how small, could boost his custom. The quantity of brandy Grenville gave him, along with a large tip, did not hurt either.

Mr. Neumann looked at the ring, gave us the name Lord Barbury, and departed home in the luxury of Grenville's carriage.

Grenville's eyes sparkled black fire. Lord Barbury, he said, a baron, had indeed answered the invitation to the soiree, and was likely still in the house. He departed in search of the man, nearly bouncing in his polished leather shoes.