Silencing him with an elbow to the ribs, Rob turned back to the other man. “Yes, I am Dovedale.” The name felt clumsy on his tongue. “And you are?”

“Frobisher. Martin Frobisher.” Suddenly the man was all eagerness to please. Letting the quizzing glass fall, he stuck out a gloved hand, noted the sticky splotch of spilled wine that marred the surface, rubbed it hard against his leg, and held it out again. “I believe our families are distantly connected. . . .”

“Through Adam, perhaps,” drawled the man behind him. “I can’t conceive of any connection closer.”

Frobisher’s cheeks mottled, but, surprisingly, he refrained from retaliating in kind. With a quick, sideways look at the other man, he subsided into obedient silence.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” said Robert neutrally.

The newcomer wafted a languid hand in greeting. “Sir Francis Medmenham, at your service. Like the rest of these louts, I am passing the holiday season on your largesse.”

With his gleaming boots and large gold signet ring, he made a very unconvincing mendicant. His appearance accomplished that towards which Frobisher only strove, his coat boasting a restrained three capes, his hair brushed into a perfect Titus, and his hat brim tilted just forward enough to provide a rakish air without obscuring his vision.

The name poked at Robert’s memory. “You haven’t been in the army, have you?’ he asked.

“Me? No. I might sully the shine on my boots. My valet would never forgive me.”

“I wish you would,” grumbled Frobisher. “Then he might finally defect to me.”

Medmenham looked the other man up and down with chilling disinterest. “I don’t think so.”

Frobisher scowled, but was still.

“It’s just that your name sounds familiar,” said Robert.

Medmenham’s lips curled in a thin smile. “You’re probably thinking of my illustrious relations — the Dashwoods of Medmenham Abbey.”