“If what you’re telling me is true, then I can find the money easy enough without you,” said Archie, getting to his feet and moving the stool back to the corner.

“Probably,” agreed the man.

“And you telling me my name only makes it more likely that you go for a one-way vertical swim.”

“Very likely. But if I’m telling the truth about Sparks and the money, then I’m also telling the truth about who I work with. So no, I’m not scared. Maybe you should be. I would be, in your situation.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” said Archie.

“You do that, Archie Spelling. Remember—no woman is worth five thousand pounds.”

Archie walked out and locked the door, leaving the man alone in the unlit, windowless room.

There in the dark, he smiled.

Iris rang the bell at the Bainbridge residence. A minute later, a butler opened the door.

“Oh, you must be Percival!” she exclaimed. “I recognised you straightaway. Mrs. Bainbridge has described you to a T. ‘In a world that aspires to be distinguished, he is the one man who truly is.’”

“She said that?” asked Percival, almost imperceptibly flustered. “About me?”

“Her very words, or near enough. Oh my goodness, I haven’t introduced myself. Miss Iris Sparks, here to see Mrs. Bainbridge. Is she feeling better? She was not looking well after dinner last night. I thought she might have ingested a bad clam somewhere along the way. I wanted to look in on her and see how she is doing.”

“I will see if she is up to receiving visitors, Miss Sparks,” said Percival, holding the door open. “Please come and sit in the parlour whilst I enquire.”

She went inside and looked around. The parlour could have contained her entire flat. A large painting depicting the current Lord and Lady Bainbridge, shortly after their marriage, dominated the near wall. In it, Lady Carolyne was sitting on a dark blue upholstered high-backed chair, strands of white pearls hanging from her neck, her brunette hair curled quite prettily in ringlets draped over each shoulder. She was slender then, the sort of woman people of the time would have described as handsome rather than beautiful. Lord Bainbridge stood behind her, both hands resting on the top of the chair, wearing a black tailcoat over a gray waistcoat, a red carnation the only spot of colour on him.

Neither of them was smiling. The expression caught on his face by the artist was one of stern judgment. Hers was—well, Iris may have been reading too much into it, but it seemed to be one of resignation.

Percival returned.

“Mrs. Bainbridge will receive you in her bedchamber,” he said. “Millicent is waiting for you at the top of the staircase, and will take you from there.”

“Thank you, Percival,” said Iris.

She walked up the staircase, where a young maid curtsied and led her down a hallway. She stopped at a door and knocked respectfully.

“Miss Sparks is here to see you, ma’am,” she said.