His brows hiked up before he could check his surprise. “I was unaware that there was such high society among us tonight.”

“She and De Wilde apparently like to talk physics and mathematics.” Camden shook his head as if bemoaning two adolescents obsessing over fashion. “And Ara has been friends with her for ages. The duchess, I mean. That’s actually how we met, at one of their dinner parties. I served with the duke in the Royal Flying Corps.” He indicated a gentleman now, who was talking to the bride’s brother.

Zivon nodded. Given the crowd, he didn’t imagine there would be any call for him to be introduced to the couple, which suited him fine. He’d just as soon steer clear of anyone likely to have foreign contacts.

“So I hear you’re a runner. What sort? Long distance? Sprinting?”

An easy conversation to fall into, and one that didn’t require so much attention that he couldn’t indulge in a search now and then for Lily and Hall on the dance floor. He told Camden about his preferences, even mentioned that he and Clarke had been running together in the mornings.

“The chap you eat lunch with most days?”

Zivon nodded.

Camden lifted a brow. “You know, I often pass Miss Blackwell leaving Charing Cross Hospital when I go to meet Ara for lunch. You could always come with me and invite her to join us. They being friends and all.”

A thought that hadn’t occurred to him. But then, he hadn’t realized until this evening that Camden’s betrothed was Lily’s friend. Whitehall, he supposed, wasn’t so large a place. The web of relationships was just as tangled as the neighborhood he’d grown up in. He just hadn’t paused to realize that he was now part of this web. “That sounds pleasant. We should work out a date with the ladies before the night ends.”

Camden said something that sounded agreeable, but Zivon’s gaze had been pulled away. Not, this time, by Lily. Rather, by the speed of a servant who darted into the room. No, two servants. One moved straight for Hall, the other for the man Camden had just identified as the duke.

“This is not good, I think.” Panic had a very particular pattern to it—shaky movements, wide eyes, abrupt changes in direction as one sought the quickest path to one’s destination. And those two men were in full panic.

The music came to another natural halt, and Zivon angled himself toward the window, listening to more thunder.

But there was no rain on the glass of the French doors he’d been musing about luring Lily through. Only the reflection of the moon.

Beside him, Camden muttered a word he didn’t know and tossed the door open. With the glass removed from between them and the night, the sounds from outside were clearer.

Deadlier.