“They ain’t for use,” Quarry murmured in his other ear. “Just show. Though if your taste runs that way, there’s a gel called Josephine—”

“What a handsome cat,” Grey said, rather loudly. He extended a forefinger and scratched the beast under the chin. It suffered this attention for a moment, then opened bright yellow eyes and sharply bit him.

“You want to watch out for Batty,” Mags said, as Grey jerked back his hand with an exclamation. “Sneaky, that’s what she is.” She shook her head indulgently at the cat, which had resumed its doze, and poured out two large glasses of porter, which she handed to her guests.

“Now, we’ve lost Nan, I’m afraid, since you was last here,” she said to Quarry. “But I’ve a sweet lass called Peg, from Devonshire, as I think you’ll like.”

“Blonde?” Quarry said with interest.

“Oh, to be sure! Tits like melons, too.”

Quarry promptly drained his glass and set it down, belching slightly.

“Splendid.”

Grey managed to catch Quarry’s eye, as he was turning to follow Mags to the parlor door.

“What about Trevelyan?” he mouthed.

“Later,” Quarry mouthed back, patting his pocket. He winked, and disappeared into the corridor.

Grey sucked his wounded finger, brooding. Doubtless Quarry was right; the chances of extracting information were better once social relations had been loosened by the expenditure of cash—and it was of course sensible to question the whores; the girls might spill things in privacy that the madam’s professional discretion would guard. He just hoped that Harry would remember to ask his blonde about Trevelyan.

He stuck his injured finger in the glass of porter and frowned at the cat, now wallowing on its back among the thumbscrews, inviting the unwary to rub its furry belly.

“The things I do for family,” he muttered balefully, and resigned himself to an evening of dubious pleasure.

He did wonder about Quarry’s motives in suggesting this expedition. He had no idea how much Harry knew or suspected about his own predilections; things had been said, during the affair of the Hellfire Club . . . but he had no notion how much Harry might have overheard on that occasion, nor yet what he had made of it, if he had.

On the other hand, given what he himself knew of Quarry’s own character and predilections, it was unlikely that any ulterior motive was involved. Harry simply liked whores—well, any woman, actually; he wasn’t particular.

The madam returned a moment later to find Grey in fascinated contemplation of the paintings. Mythological in subject and mediocre in execution, the paintings nonetheless boasted a remarkable sense of invention on the part of the artist. Grey pulled himself away from a large study showing a centaur engaged in amorous coupling with a very game young woman, and forestalled Mags’ suggestions.