Why Grenville had decided to take up my acquaintance, I did not yet understand. He was not much younger than I, but he exhibited an exuberance for life that twenty years of campaigning had drained from me. Because of him, I now received invitations to sought-after gatherings and had been placed on the guest lists of prominent hostesses. I knew the beau monde wanted only to assess me and wonder why Grenville had decided to so honor me, but I sometimes enjoyed the outings even so.

"I have his acquaintance, yes," I answered neutrally.

"It must be all to your advantage, I imagine."

I didn't like Horne’s wispy voice, his taste in art, and his implication, but I said, "Indeed."

His eyes almost twinkled. "Well, what can I do for you, sir, that your connection with Mr. Grenville cannot?"

I thought about the maid I'd met downstairs. "Mr. Denis," I hazarded.

He stopped twinkling. He hesitated a long time, as if deciding whether to admit recognizing the name, then he nodded. "Of course. Of course. I understand completely. Let us sit and discuss it."

He led me to the two chairs near the fireplace. He rang for the butler, who eventually wandered in with a bowl of punch-warmed port, sugar, water, and lemon-filled glasses for us both, then departed.

I sipped from my glass and tried not to make a face. I didn't like the sweet addition, and the sugar couldn't hide the fact that the port was cheap. I reasoned that Horne must have money, because only a man of wealth could afford to reside in a house in Hanover Square, but whatever he spent his money on, it was not drink or art or interior decoration.