“We know you are a member of the despicable Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin, Mr. Whitmore,” I said, all my rage about Miss Hollis and Jenny rising to the forefront again. “Women have died in that place. Give me a reason why I do not have you thrown out upon the street.”

Samuel and Albert exchanged full glances and stepped even closer. Whitmore clearly noted their advance but did not blanch. More staunch than I thought.

“Lady Augusta, I ask you to read this before you take any action,” he said. He thrust out a packet. “It is from a mutual friend. Please, it is important.”

What mutual friend could we have? I eyed him warily but took the packet. There was no direction upon the front, but all three of its folds were sealed with a separate blob of red wax. A letter, then, from someone who wanted to make sure I knew I was the first to open it.

With three flicks of my thumb, I broke each of the seals and spread the single sheet of paper.

5th November 1812

My dear Augusta,

Behold, the favor.

Trust him. I do.

George Brummell

“What does it say?” Julia asked, leaning over to read the short missive. “Oh Lud, so this is his favor. Are you sure he wrote it?”

I read the note again. It was, indeed, in George’s hand. But a favor involving Charles Whitmore? And could I really trust a man who was a member of the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin, even if George Brummell did?

“What is going on?” I demanded. “What favor does Mr. Brummell wish me to do for you?”

He looked pointedly at our footmen and Weatherly. “This must be a private conversation.”

I glanced at Julia. She nodded. “You may go,” she said to our footmen. “You, too, Weatherly. Thank you.”

Upon their somewhat reluctant departure, Mr. Whitmore motioned to the sofa opposite us. “May I sit? It has been a hectic few days.”

I gave a curt nod, although I sensed Julia’s concern about his shabby self upon her sofa.

We all sat. Mr. Whitmore removed his greasy tricorn and placed it on the sofa beside him—Julia giving a soft cluck of horror—then clasped his hands together, his brow furrowed.

“I believe you know I am undersecretary of the Alien Office?” Julia and I nodded. “It is the responsibility of my department to ensure that foreign spies do not obtain information about England or smuggle it out of our country. As you can imagine, a crucial task during this drawn-out war with Bonaparte. It has also become our task to root out dissent among our own people.”

“The Luddites,” I said, with some accusation in my voice.