The marquess gave a grateful nod, so Reese strolled to the sideboard and poured a snifter for each of them while Singleton started to pace. When Reese handed him a glass, the marquess tossed it back, emptying it in one swallow. He carefully set the snifter on a table and pulled on the sleeves of his jacket before speaking. “I’ve recently learned that some distasteful business is being conducted out of a building that you own.”

Reese arched a brow. “And what building might that be?” he drawled.

“I believe it used to be a gentleman’s shop of some sort. I checked the property records earlier, and apparently it belongs to you.”

The hairs on Reese’s arms stood on end. “I’m vaguely aware of the vacant building,” he lied. “I can assure you that no one is currently using it.”

“I have reason to believe otherwise,” Singleton said. “My uncle was fond of the old shop and happened to be walking by it late last night when he saw a light coming from the windows. He thought it was odd, so he stopped to investigate.”

Holy hell. Reese didn’t know exactly what Sophie did at the tailor’s shop on Friday nights, but he did know two things. First, it was important to her. And second, it was imperative that no one discovered what she was doing.

Reese flashed a cajoling, conspiratorial grin. “By any chance was your uncle coming from the pub after a long night of drinking?”

The marquess frowned. “No.”

“My building is empty,” Reese said firmly. “But then, many of the shop fronts look similar. I’m sorry to inform you that your uncle is mistaken.”

Singleton pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry to inform you,” he countered, “that your property is being used—perhaps without your knowledge—for nefarious purposes.”

Reese chuckled, couldn’t help it. The thought of Sophie involved with anything nefarious was ludicrous. Still, he’d have to warn her at the first available opportunity that the shop was no longer a safe place for her to conduct her meetings.

“This is no laughing matter, I assure you,” Singleton said, clearly affronted. “I have good cause to believe that your building is the headquarters of a highly radical, subversive group—an organization known as the Debutante Underground.”

Reese spewed his mouthful of brandy halfway across the drawing room. “I beg your pardon,” he said, cocking one ear toward the marquess. “Did you say the Debutante Underground?”

Singleton lifted his impeccably clean-shaven chin. “I did,” he said imperiously. “Apparently, that’s the name given to devotees of The Debutante’s Revenge.”

Reese arched a sardonic brow. “And what, exactly, is The Debutante’s Revenge?”

The marquess clucked his tongue. “Been living under a rock, have you?”

“Something like that,” Reese said, unapologetic.