“Thank you, Mr. Stapleton,” the little man said, a clear tone of dismissal in his voice. Mr. Stapleton, alias Neil the Cunt, gave a short, jerky bow and moved away, eyes flickering to and from Grey with the air of one who has just seen an apparition but hopes it will have the good manners to disappear before the next glance.

Quarry and the shabby Mr. Bowles still murmured, heads together. Grey sauntered unobtrusively to an open window, where he stood, hands folded behind him, ostensibly seeking air as an antidote to the fug inside the room.

The sun was nearly down, the last of it gleaming off the rump of the bronze horse bearing the statue of Charles I that stood in the street below. He had always felt a sneaking fondness for that statue, having been informed by some forgotten tutor that the monarch, who had been two inches short of Grey’s own current height, had had himself rendered on horseback in order to look more imposing—in the process, having his height unobtrusively amended to an even six feet.

A slight clearing of the throat behind him informed him that Neil the Cunt had joined him, as intended.

“Will you take some wine, sir?”

He half-turned, in such a way that it seemed natural for the young man, bearing his tray, to step forward and set it down on the broad sill. Grey made a small gesture of assent, looking coolly on as the wine was poured.

Stapleton’s eyes flicked sideways to insure that no one was watching, then darted back to fix on Grey’s with an expression of unspoken desperation.

Please. His lips moved soundlessly, as he held out the tumbler. The wine trembled, washing to and fro against the cloudy glass.

Grey didn’t move to take it at once, but flicked his own glance sideways toward Mr. Bowles’s bowed head, and back at Stapleton, raising his brows in question.

A look of horror at the thought filled Stapleton’s eyes, and he shook his head, very slightly.

Grey reached out and wrapped his hand around the glass, covering the tips of Neil’s fingers as he did so. He squeezed them briefly, then took the glass, lowering his gaze.

“I thank you, sir,” he said politely.

“Your servant, sir,” Stapleton said, with equal politeness, and bowed before turning to lift the tray. Grey caught the faint scent of Stapleton’s sweat, rank with fear, but the decanter and remaining glasses stayed steady as he carried them away.