He returned not long after with Lord Barbury in tow. Lord Barbury was a tall man with deep brown eyes, in his thirties, past his first blush of youth but not yet at middle age. Waves of thick dark hair dressed in the romantic style touched his shoulders and made his long face look still longer. His chin was shadowed with beard, as though his whiskers sprouted as quickly as his valet scraped them off.

Barbury wore a black suit much like Grenville's, with an ivory-and-white striped waistcoat. Heavy gold rings encircled his fingers, and his cravat pin sported a large emerald. A man about town, I assessed, living to go to his clubs, ride horses, gamble, and take a pretty mistress.

He frowned at me as Grenville introduced us, a frown that froze when Grenville opened his hand and displayed the silver ring.

"Where the devil did you get that?" Barbury demanded.

I said quietly, "A woman was pulled from the Thames earlier this evening. She was wearing it."

All the color drained from his face. "What do you mean? Tell me at once."

"Is this your ring?" Grenville asked.

"Yes, that is my be-damned ring. I do not understand why you have it."

"Lacey?" Grenville said.

"The woman was small and pretty," I said. "She had blond hair and wore a gown of light pink and beaded slippers. She was wearing this ring under her glove. She had been murdered, her head struck, before she was pushed into the river."

Lord Barbury gasped for breath, his eyes becoming pinpoints of black in his stark white face. Grenville caught him as he sagged and got him into a chair. I poured the man a glass of claret and handed it to him. Lord Barbury drank.

His hauteur and rage faded as he swallowed. He gave Grenville a dazed look. "Please, gentlemen, tell me you are mistaken. That this is some disgusting joke…"