“You’re not enjoying that swill, are you?” Caswell nodded toward the discarded glass of porter. He filled a pair of crystal wineglasses with a deep crimson liquid, and held one out. “Here, have some of this.”

Grey took the proffered glass with a sense of unreality; he had taken wine here, in this room, when George had first brought him to Lavender House—a prelude to their retiring to one of the chambers upstairs. The sense of mild disorientation was succeeded by a sharp shock when he took the first sip.

“That’s very good,” he said, holding the glass up to the fire as though to appraise the color. “What is it?”

“Don’t know the name,” Caswell said, sniffing at the wine with appreciation. “German stuff, not bad. Had it before?”

Grey closed his eyes and drank deeply, frowning and affecting to wash it about his tongue in an effort at placement. Not that he entertained the slightest doubt. He had a good nose for wine, and a better palate—and he had drunk enough of this particular vintage with Nessie to be more than sure of recognizing it again.

“Might have,” he said, opening his eyes and meeting Caswell’s penetrating gaze with an innocent blink. “Can’t recall. Decent stuff, though. Where’d you find it?”

“One of our members prefers it. He brings it by the cask, and we keep it in the cellar for him. Fond of it myself.” Caswell took another sip, then set down his glass. “Well . . . my lord. How might I have the pleasure of serving you?” The fleshless lips rose in a smile. “Do you mean to seek membership in the Lavender Club? I’m sure the committee would look upon your application with the most cordial favor.”

“Was that the committee I met in the library?” Grey asked dryly.

“Some of them.” Caswell uttered a short laugh, but choked it off, unwilling to start another coughing fit. “Mind you, they might require you to submit to a series of personal interviews, but I’m sure you would have no objection to that?”

The glass felt slippery in his hand. He’d once seen a young man bent over a leather ottoman in that library and subjected to a number of personal interviews, to the vast entertainment of all present. They still had the ottoman; he’d noticed.

“I am exceedingly flattered at the suggestion,” he said politely. “As it happens, though, what I require at the moment is information, rather than companionship, delightful as that prospect might be.”

Caswell coughed, sitting up a little straighter. The smile was still there, but the black eyes had grown brighter.

“Yes?” he said. Grey could almost hear the whisper of steel drawn from a scabbard. The pourparlers were done; let the duel begin.

“The Honorable Mr. Trevelyan,” he said, laying his own blade against Caswell’s. “He comes here regularly; I know that already. I wish to know whom he meets.”