But Bartholomew Hislop was not blessed in his tailor. This morning he was dressed in what he considered the highest kick of fashion: an olive frock coat with enormous metal buttons down the front, left open to reveal a waistcoat violently striped in purple and yellow. On the personal front, he had fluffy sideburns, worn rather long (in a style that Bartholomew believed to be all the rage), and thin legs, not quite knock-kneed. Add a cheerfully lascivious glint in his eye, and you had Bartholomew Bayley Hislop, the only son and heir to a butcher who had made huge amounts of money boiling cow’s bones into glue—enough to send his only son off to Cambridge and now to support him in the metropolis.

Emily greeted Hislop with rather more cheer than she generally showed him. “Mr. Hislop, what a pleasure to see you again!” She watched as he bowed, and then gave him a brief curtsy. “May I present Mr. Lucien Boch?”

Bartholomew Hislop didn’t recognize Mr. Boch, but that didn’t bother him. He did recognize his tailor. “I’m happy to meet you, sir! Very pleased to meet you! I have decided to forswear the single-breasted frock coat myself. Gave it up around, oh, thirteen weeks ago. I decided the style made me look a trifle pigeon-chested. Not that the effect is so on you, my dear sir. And that particular frock coat is made by Guthrie, is it not?”

Lucien bowed. “You have located my tailor exactly, sir.”

“Well, not located,” Hislop said punctiliously. “I have not personally employed Mr. Guthrie. I’m afraid I demand, shall we say, a trifle more of an adventurous attitude in a tailor. But I believe that Mr. Guthrie is currently situated in Leadenhall Street, number twenty-seven, is he not?”

“You are correct.”

“I generally am in these matters, my dear sir. Now, I can see at a glance that you are a foreign gentleman, Mr. Boch, and so you probably have not heard of me. But I can assure you that I am building a wee reputation amongst men of mode, amongst those of the first circles. I fancy that I have an eye, a flair. And”—he leered at Emily—“one of my greatest joys is sharing my observations with Mrs. Ewing. It gives me enormous pleasure to do my small something for La Belle Assemblée.”

Lucien looked at Emily. She read the disgust in his eyes and gave him a frown.

“I’m very much afraid that I shall have to ask you to excuse us, sir. Mr. Hislop has been kind enough to promise to share his notes regarding the fashion worn at a reception given for the Duke and Duchess of Gisle, and I am sure you would find such minutiae tedious.”

“The duke and duchess just returned from Turkey,” Hislop said importantly. “Lady Gisle wore Carême, of course.”