Rex pulled his attention away from Eleanora’s cat, Howell’s ledgers, and the sheer stupidity of sitting in a theater box week after week when nobody could hear what was said on stage.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well you might, but I am telling you the truth. Norcross was most confident in his assertion that Lady Rachel is afflicted with a penchant for laudanum. I asked him who would propound such a falsehood and he grew defensive.”

“While I am growing furious. Lady Rachel enjoys one of the least excitable dispositions ever bestowed upon woman. She has no need of nerve tonics or laudanum.”

“Which is what I told Norcross, though of course, I have never raised the subject with her ladyship.”

A delicate and fair question lay in his lordship’s rejoinder.

“I have reviewed my family accounts in detail, Bledsoe. No unusual expenditures at the apothecary or herbalist’s blight my books.” What a pleasure to know that was true.

“Just so, Your Grace, but I thought you should be aware of the exchange.”

“I commend your loyalty to the lady. Did Norcross say where he’d heard this rumor?”

Lord Jeremy found it necessary to study the label on the wine bottle. “He wouldn’t say, but intimated that somebody of unimpeachable veracity had put a word in his ear last spring. Norcross hinted that it might have been you or a person equally close to her ladyship.”

What would Eleanora have made of this development? “Shall I interview Norcross myself?”

“You can’t. He caught last night’s packet for Calais. I gather he’ll spend the holidays there rather than endure Yuletide at his family seat. Do I conclude, Your Grace, that I might mention my aspirations to Lady Rachel in the near future?”

“You may.”

Lord Jeremy poured himself the rest of the wine. “A toast, then, to her ladyship’s continued good health.”

Rex obliged, but then rose. “The matter now lies between the two of you, at least until the solicitors wreak their havoc. Best of luck.”

Lord Jeremy stood as well. “Will I see you at the theater, Your Grace?”

The weight of duty pressed down on Rex, another evening spent greeting acquaintances, bantering, pretending he was enjoying himself. Not too much for family to ask, but tonight, that was more than he had to give.

“Not this week,” he said. “I am required elsewhere.”

Lord Jeremy bowed, then resumed his seat and commenced beaming fatuously at his glass of wine. Rex left him to it, and retrieved his hat and coat from the doorman.

“There you are.” The speaker, a young man, started forward from the porter’s nook. “I’ve been looking all over London for you, Your Grace.”

The fellow was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and vaguely familiar. “Do I know you?”

“My name is not important. I come bearing a note from Mr. Patrick Entwhistle.”