I had come to know the man behind the facade, a gentleman of intelligence and good sense, who was well read and well traveled and possessed a lively curiosity that matched my own. People wondered why Grenville had shown interest in me, a half-pay cavalry officer who had passed his fortieth year. Though I had good lineage, I had no wealth, no connections, no prospects.

I knew Grenville was kind to me because I interested him, and I relieved the ennui into which he, one of the most wealthy men in England often lapsed. He enjoyed hearing tales of my adventures, and he'd helped me investigate several murders and mysterious events in the past year.

I could not fault Grenville his generosity, but I could not repay it either. His charity often grated on my pride, but in the last year, I had come to regard him as a friend. If he wished me to attend the crush at his home, I would oblige him and go, though I would have to endure a night of rude stares at me and my fading regimentals.

Hence, I enjoyed myself sitting in the friendly, noisy tavern before I had to venture to Mayfair and face London's elite.

At least my lodgings had become something less than dismal since Bartholomew's arrival. Grenville had lent him to me and paid for his keep, because the lad wanted to train to be a valet, the pinnacle of the servant class. Therefore, I now had someone to mix my shaving soap, brush my suits, keep my boots polished, and talk to me while we chewed through the beefsteak and boiled potatoes he fetched from the nearby public house.

I suspected Grenville's purpose in sending Bartholomew to me was twofold-first, because Grenville felt sorry for me, and second, because he wanted to keep an eye on me. With Bartholomew reporting to him, Grenville would be certain not to miss any intriguing situation into which I might land myself.

Bad fortune for him that Grenville had chosen to call Bartholomew home to help him tonight.