The golden-haired youth to his left was studying him with narrowed eyes and obvious appetite; the stocky brown-haired lad saw, and didn’t like it. Grey saw him move closer, deliberately jostling Goldie-Locks, to distract his attention. Goldie-Locks put a soothing hand on his playfellow’s leg, but didn’t take his eyes off Grey.

“Well, if you will not give your name, let me make you a present of mine.” A curly-haired young man with a sweet mouth and soft brown eyes stepped forward, smiling, and took his hand. “Percy Wainwright—at your service, ma’am.” He bent over Grey’s hand in the most graceful of gestures, and kissed the knuckles.

The feel of the boy’s warm breath on his skin made the hairs stand up on Grey’s forearm. He would have liked to grasp Percy’s hand and draw him in, but that wouldn’t do, not just now.

He let his own hand lie inert in Wainwright’s for a moment, to offer neither insult nor invitation, then drew it back.

“Your servant . . . madam.”

That made them laugh, though still with an edge of wariness. They were not sure yet if he was fish or fowl, and he meant to keep it that way as long as possible.

He was a good deal more cautious now than he had been when George Everett had first brought him here. Then he had not cared for anything in particular—save George, perhaps. Now, having come so close to losing his for good, he had some appreciation for the value of a reputation; not merely his, but those of his family and his regiment, as well.

“What brings you here, my dear?” Goldie-Locks stepped closer, blue eyes burning like twin candle flames.

“Looking for a lady,” Grey drawled, leaning back against the sideboard in assumed casualness. “In a green velvet gown.”

There was a sputter of laughter at this, and glances among them, but nothing that looked like dawning recognition.

“Green doesn’t suit me,” Goldie-Locks said, and licked a pointed tongue briefly across his upper lip. “But I’ve a charming blue satin with laced pinners that I’m sure you’d like.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” the brown-haired boy said, eyeing both Grey and Goldie-Locks with clear dislike. “You cunt, Neil.”

“Language, ladies, language.” Percy Wainwright edged Goldie-Locks back with a deft elbow, smiling at Grey. “This lady in green—have you a name for her?”

“Josephine, I believe,” Grey said, glancing from one face to another. “Josephine, from Cornwall.”

That provoked a chorus of mildly derisive “Oooh”s, and one man began to sing “My Little Black Ewe,” in an off-key voice. Then the door opened, and everyone turned to see who had come in.

It was Richard Caswell, the proprietor of Lavender House. Grey knew him at once—and he recalled Grey, it was plain. Still, Caswell didn’t greet him by name, but merely nodded pleasantly.