I hired a hackney coach to take us through the hot and damp bustle of London to Mayfair. Haze shimmered in the air, rendering the classical lines of the Admiralty a distant white bulk as we passed through Charing Cross.

We followed Cockspur Street, then commenced up Haymarket to Piccadilly, and thence into Mayfair through Berkeley Street and Berkeley Square. Even at the early hour, young ladies and gentlemen in their carriages, properly chaperoned, of course, were eating ices from Gunter's in the shade of trees in the oval park. These ladies were not the most fashionable-the grande dames would still be abed from their evenings out, not rising until perhaps three in the afternoon.

The hackney turned out of Berkeley Square into Davies Street, and so on to Grosvenor Street. We stopped before a plain brown brick house adorned with Doric columns that flanked a red painted front door. The door was missing its knocker, which would usually indicate that the family had left London. I knew the house’s simple facade was deceiving-the houses on this street held sons of lords, wealthy members of Commons, and gentlemen of high standing. My acquaintance Lucius Grenville lived but ten doors down in large and elegant splendor.

A footman in maroon livery hastened from his post and pulled open the door of the hackney as soon as it halted. He stared at me in surprise, then his footman's demeanor slammed back into place and he reached in to help his lady. I guided her out to him. Her perfume, diminished with the night, mingled with the scent of summer rain.

I descended after her and bade the driver to wait.

The footman looked a bit bewildered. He was young and tall and strong, as a good footman ought to be, and I was relieved to see devotion in his eyes when he looked at his mistress. He took his cue from me and led her to the door with as much tenderness as he might his own mother.