“Number Fourteen, Endsleigh Park Road,” Julian replied, already reaching for the door. “And make haste, if you—”

“My destination, as well,” a man said from behind them.

Matthew spun around, startled by the voice so close to his ear.

The man who had spoken wore a dove-gray greatcoat with a fleece collar and a gray tricorn adorned with a thin red band. He was tall and lean with a high forehead, dark hair, eyes so pale blue they were a shocking color against the deep brown shade of his face, a square chin and the kind of thin-bridged aristocratic nose with flared nostrils that seem to always be offended by odors from the lower classes, which contained everyone but his own ilk. Still, the man was smiling and there was no sense of either threat or snobbery. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, speaking with the trace of a foreign accent that Matthew found difficult to name. “But may I share your carriage, Count Pellegar?”

Matthew was both terrified and impressed; terrified by the man’s use of the title and impressed by the coolness of Julian, who simply moved back and swept an arm toward the interior. The man placed a polished black boot upon the passenger’s step. Matthew saw he was carrying a similarly polished black satchel. The man pulled himself up into the carriage, and Julian gave Matthew a look that even through the white face paint and the rouged cheekbones of a clown said Be on your guard.

Matthew and Julian sat across from the man as the hack started off. The interior’s oil lamp rocked on its gimbal, throwing elongated shadows.

“It is a pleasure, sir,” said the man, still smiling. “And this is Baron Brux, I believe?”

“The same. English is not his language. I have also the pleasure of addressing whom?”

“Um … you may call me Victor.”

“But not your real name?”

“No.” He shrugged. “What is a name but something applied to one that colors an impression?”

“And you know us how?”

Opening the sail in dangerous waters, Matthew thought, but he could say nothing.

“By your reputations, of course,” said Victor. “And your clothing. Let me rephrase that: your style. Your handling of the situation with Prince Powalaski—was it three years ago?—was masterful. I dare say I can’t think of anyone who could have gotten in there as you did, with all that security.”

“Hm,” said Julian.