It spoke of our long and comfortable friendship that Grenville endured this gentle chide without offense.
“You know I cannot venture from my house unless I am properly attired,” Grenville said. “Can I, Gautier?”
“No, indeed, monsieur,” Gautier answered calmly.
“The very edifice of society might crumble if I were to be seen with one of the buttons at my ankle undone or my waistcoat an iota out of place. Think of the distress I’d cause.”
“Very amusing.” I took a final sip of the very good coffee, thanked Matthias, and rose. “When you can tear yourself away, perhaps you will accompany me to Denis’s to read his correspondence?”
“I’d be honored, old chap.” Grenville nodded at his valet. “Gautier, prepare me for an afternoon’s walk to Curzon Street.”
Once Gautier had finished, Grenville donned a pair of sturdy boots, and we tramped through Mayfair to Denis’s house. Brewster stepped out its front door as we approached.
“Better come in, guv,” he said. “Gibbons agreed to let you have a butcher’s, but he’s not best pleased about it.”
“Denis instructed him to,” I said in surprise.
“Aye, but Gibbons is a protective sod. Do anything for His Nibs, would Gibbons.”
Brewster ushered us through the foyer to an echoing hall empty of the usual horde of Denis’s men. Many of the watchers I was used to seeing here must be with Denis, guarding him against the perils of Newgate.
“He has the letter upstairs.” Brewster jabbed his thumb upward. “In the usual place.”
He made no move to follow me as Grenville and I mounted the staircase, unworried that danger could befall me here.
The house was eerily hushed, as though holding its breath, awaiting its master’s return. Grenville and I did not speak as we ascended past the serene painting of the woman pouring out a jug of cream, fearing to break the odd silence.
I assumed that by the usual place Brewster meant Denis’s study. I approached the closed door, wondering if it would be locked and I’d need to hunt down Gibbons for a key.
Gibbons himself wrenched open the study’s door from the inside the moment before I reached it. He scowled at me in greeting.
“Mr. Pickett’s correspondence is on the desk.”
I nodded as I stepped past him, Grenville beginning to follow me.
Gibbons half closed the door, blocking Grenville’s path. “Only Captain Lacey has Mr. Denis’s permission.”
I frowned in annoyance. “Mr. Grenville is hardly here to make off with the silver?—”
“It is quite all right,” Grenville interposed quickly. “Mr. Denis had no notion I’d be accompanying you, and I’d hope my employees would do the same if someone came to my home in my absence. I will await you downstairs, Lacey.”
Grenville gave Gibbons a gracious nod, which did not soften Gibbons the slightest bit, and turned away. Gibbons closed the door behind him with a solid thunk.
Gibbons remained in the room, not about to let me sit and read the correspondence on my own. It was equally obvious that I would not be allowed to take it away with me.
Gibbons positioned himself near the door and kept his yellowing eyes on me, like a gargoyle who’d guard the place for the next century.
I hid a sigh, seated myself at the desk, and pulled two very short missives that lay there toward me.
The first was formal, an introduction.
Sir,
I am Bernard Pickett, a man who has recently risen to good fortune, at least so I believed. I have come into some trouble lately and have been assured by Lord Eccleshal, Sir Humphrey Godden, and Mr. Jones-Graves that you are the man to turn to in such times. I have been informed that your fees are quite high, but I am prepared to pay anything for your assistance. What I ask is nothing that will put you in danger, nor is it of an immoral or obscene nature. A simple matter, but one I cannot undertake myself.
I remain, in hope of your understanding,
Bernard Pickett
