“I just don’t understand it,” Fig muttered. “Your poor brother about to face the hangman’s noose and Her Majesty sends you off to enjoy yourself in the country. I am obviously the only one who is going to stick by poor Binky.” She put a lace handkerchief to her face and stalked out of the room in a huff. It was the only moment I had enjoyed in quite a long time.

But she was right. I really should be doing something constructive for Binky. If only someone could pay a visit to the gambling clubs de Mauxville had visited. Maybe something significant had happened there—he had cheated someone or he had collected blackmail money. Granddad had mentioned Crockford’s, but I couldn’t go to a place like that, could I? It needed someone with social ease and brilliance, part of that racy set. . . . Of course!

I set off for Belinda’s place right away. She was awake and dressed, sitting at her kitchen table with a pad and pencil in front of her.

“Don’t disturb me. I’m designing a new gown,” she said. “I’ve actually got a commission. Some owner of a motorcar factory is going to be made a peer and his wife wants the kind of dress that the aristocracy wears. And she’s going to pay me proper money for it too.”

“I’m happy for you, but I wondered if you had any plans for tonight.”

“Tonight, why?”

“I want you to go to Crockford’s with me.”

“Crockford’s? Are you taking up gambling now? Out of your league, my dear. They cater to the gambling elite—very high stakes.”

“I don’t want to gamble, but the doorman at Claridge’s said that de Mauxville frequented the place. I want to know who he met there and whether anything important happened—an argument, maybe.”

“I’d like to help, but I’m afraid I have other plans tonight,” she said.

I took a deep breath. “Then could you lend me a vampish outfit and I’ll go on my own.”

“Georgie, you have to be a member. They’d never let you in.”

“I’ll think of something. I’ll claim to be meeting someone there. It’s just important that I don’t look like me or they’ll recognize me. Please, Belinda? Someone has to do it, and my sister-in-law certainly can’t.”

She looked up at me, sighed, and stood up. “Oh, very well. I still think this is doomed to failure, but I suppose I could find something suitable to lend you.”

She took me upstairs, tried various dresses on me, and finally settled on long, black, and slinky with a red rouched cape.

“And if anyone asks you who designed it, you can hand them my card.”