San subtlety point proven.
“Unfortunately,” Ash said, “the St. John’s Wood house will soon be vacant.”
“Finally thrown over, were you?” Hurtheven asked.
“Yes.” Finally?
“I am astonished she lasted, truth be told. Are you feeling—”
Ash raised his brows.
“Of course not.” Hurtheven clapped him on the shoulder. “I am parched, many thanks for asking. And Smith here would welcome a seat, I am sure.”
“Yes, of course.” Ash shook his head to clear the obvious haze. It wasn’t every night he found himself unceremoniously discarded by his mistress only to discover a long-dead friend very much alive. Alive...but hiding. “Please, take a seat.”
Ash retrieved scotch from his cabinet and poured three fingers. He handed the first to Hurtheven and the second to Chev.
The years had been less than kind to Cheverley, though the determined set of his friend’s chin remained familiar. As did that quality Cheverley possessed when he fixed Ash with his disturbing pale gaze—the one that made Ash feel his secrets were as obvious as his cravat.
“Heartily glad to have you here,” Ash said.
Chev nodded his thanks. Ash looked away from Chev’s tremor. Some things a man did not wish acknowledged, even by an old ally.
“So,” Hurtheven turned to Cheverley, “six years is a long time to cover. Where shall I begin?”
“Why don’t you abridge?” Chev suggested.
“Ashbey,” Hurtheven gestured toward Ash, “has been doing the utmost to fulfill his Eta Rho Zeta sobriquet.”
“Eta Rho Zeta.” Chev’s lip nearly lifted into a smile. The levity passed. “I haven’t heard that silly name in an eternity.”
“A secret society should always have a name,” Hurtheven replied. “Does it matter if we borrowed whimsy from the colonies when choosing ours?” Hurtheven toasted the sky. “With appreciation to my uncle, the traitorous Virginian.”
“I believe,” Ash said, “they call themselves Americans.”
“Never mind the usurpers.” Hurtheven drank again. “Let a meeting of the Olympians commence. “Hades.” He nodded to Ash. “Poseidon.” His gaze moved to Chev. “And—” he toasted himself, “—Zeus.”
“Aren’t we a little old for this?” Ash asked.
“Gods live forever,” Hurtheven answered.
Cheverley made a dismissive sound. “Someone should have informed the French.”
“You returned, did you not?” Hurtheven pointed out.
No subtlety at all.
Ash cleared his throat. “Che—Smith, I mean—how long do you expect to stay in London?”
“I am not sure.” Cheverly swirled the liquid in his glass. The circles under his eyes appeared to darken. “I’ve been tasked with a sordid affair.”
“Why not place it before the council?” Hurtheven asked. “As always, you may depend on our discretion.”
“You aren’t even here, are you?” Ash added.
“Right,” Chev answered with a curt nod. “The mess concerns Admiral Octavius Stone—”
“Recently deceased hero of the hour?” Hurtheven interrupted.
