“Here we are.” Blackwell pointed to a proud-looking stone house near the end of Curzon Street. Not exactly the grandest home in Mayfair, but not exactly modest. Befitting this family’s standing, Zivon supposed. A generation or two removed from nobility, but still of good society. They would have noble connections. Titled cousins, or perhaps Blackwell even had a brother with a country estate or ancestral holdings to his name.

Zivon drew in a breath as they drove a little farther, to the carriage house that would serve many of the homes on the street. This wasn’t the world he’d been born to. But it was the world he’d found himself a part of with his advancement in the czar’s codebreaking division. He knew how to get along in it.

Blackwell checked his watch as they walked back up the street, nodding at whatever time it told him. “We’ll have arrived a bit before our other guests for the evening. Hall and his wife will be joining us, as will Lieutenant Clarke. Have you met him yet? He’s on my floor, one above you OB40 lads.”

Zivon shook his head. “I do not believe I have. But I look forward to making his acquaintance.”

“He’s a stand-up chap. I think you’ll like him.”

A friend would be nice, but Zivon wouldn’t get his hopes up. He’d yet to make many solid connections with his new colleagues. They were all polite enough, but they no doubt held him in a bit of suspicion. He would, were he in their shoes.

He would change that, though. He’d prove himself trustworthy. Gain their esteem.

Zivon followed his host up the steps, through the door that opened for them, and into a lovely, bright entryway that carried the scent of turpentine and another whiff of lily of the valley.

The servant who had opened the door—an older fellow with a kind-looking face—offered a smile to his employer. “Mrs. Blackwell hasn’t yet come down, sir. But your daughters are in the drawing room already.”

Blackwell grinned. “Lily made it home in good time, then?”

The servant chuckled. “Over an hour ago.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Eaton. Come along, then, Mr. Marin. I’ll make the introductions to my daughters, and they can entertain you for a few minutes while I make myself presentable.”

Zivon handed his hat and overcoat into Eaton’s waiting hands, thanked him, and followed Blackwell into the drawing room. If not for the empty easel and case of paints by the window, it would have looked as he’d expect—pastels, cream-colored walls, furniture and appointments that were all of good quality but showing their age.

“There are my darlings, Ivy Green and Lily White. How were your days?”