“Seppings said that you wished to speak with me. If you would care to join me? . . .” Caswell stood aside, indicating the door.

A low whistle of insinuating admiration followed Grey as he left, succeeded by whoops of laughter.

You cunt, Neil, he thought, and then dismissed all thought of anything save the matter at hand.

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The Affairs of Men

I was not sure that you still owned this place, else I should have inquired for you by name.” Grey settled himself into the chair indicated by his host, and took the opportunity to discard the unwanted glass of porter onto a nearby table crowded with knickknacks.

“Surprised I’m still alive, I expect,” Caswell said dryly, taking his own seat across the hearth.

This was the truth, and Grey didn’t bother to deny it. The fire burned low and lent a deceptively ruddy hue to Caswell’s wasted features, but Grey had seen him by clear candlelight in the library. He looked worse than he had when last seen, years before—but not much worse.

“You don’t look a day over a thousand, Mother Caswell,” Grey said lightly. That was the truth, too; beneath his modish bag-wig and an extravagant suit of striped blue silk, the man might as well have been an Egyptian mummy. Bony brown wrists and hands like bundles of dry sticks protruded from the sleeves; while the suit had undoubtedly been made by an excellent tailor, it hung upon his shrunken form like a scarecrow’s burlap.

“You shameless flatterer.” Caswell looked him over, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Can’t say the same for you, my dear. You look as fresh and innocent as the day I first saw you. How old were you then, eighteen?” Caswell’s eyes were just the same; small, black, and clever, perpetually bloodshot from smoke and late hours, sunk in pouches of deep violet.

“I lead a wholesome life. Keeps the skin clear.”

Caswell laughed, then began to cough. With a practiced economy of motion, he drew a crumpled handkerchief from his waistcoat and clapped it to his mouth. He lifted a sketchy brow at Grey, half-shrugging as though to apologize for the delay of their conversation, meanwhile suffering the racking spasms with the indifference of long custom.

The coughing done at last, he inspected the resultant blood spots on the handkerchief and, evidently finding them no worse than expected, tossed the cloth into the fire.

“I need a drink,” he said hoarsely, rising from his chair and heading toward the big mahogany desk, where a silver tray held a decanter and several glasses.

Unlike Magda’s sanctum, Caswell’s room held nothing at all that indicated the nature of Lavender House or of its members; it might have belonged to a director of the Bank of London, for all its soberness and elegance of furnishing.