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“Quite,” Tom assured him. “I must be off. Carstairs is expecting me, you see.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured the man in confusion, wandering off. “Thought for sure it was Devonshire...”

Tom continued on his way, lifting a glass of champagne from a harried maid’s tray. He’d chatted with her at the fence a time or two, but no flash of recognition lit her face. Thankfully he didn’t see Polly again as he sipped the wine while making his way toward the door.

He deposited his half-full glass on a table under a flower arrangement and stepped into the hall. “Fetch my things,” he told one of the waiting footmen with careless arrogance.

“Yes, sir, immediately.” The footman bowed and hurried away, returning a moment later with a high-crowned hat, walking stick, and evening cloak. Tom tossed the cloak around his shoulders.

“Enjoyed yourself tonight?” breathed the footman as he held out the hat.

“Well enough,” Tom murmured in reply, his lips barely moving. Not as much as dear Gerry, but he’d done his job.

The footman bowed. “Very good, sir,” he said again in a normal voice. “Good evening, sir.”

Tom set the hat on his head at a jaunty angle and took the stick before striding out the door, down the steps, and into the London night.

He walked for some time, through quiet, well-swept avenues twinkling with gas lights, through tidy streets of tightly closed shops, and finally into narrow, dirty streets that echoed with the invitations of prostitutes and the racket of pubs. Just short of Covent Garden, he turned into a tavern. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the smoky air before taking a seat on a bench at the end of one table.

A serving girl with a tightly laced bodice was upon him in a moment. He sent her for some ale, then leaned back and let his gaze wander about the room. A few fellow customers peered at him curiously, but most ignored him.

Within a few minutes another man, paunchy and colorless, slid onto the bench beside him. “Fine night, eh?” said the new fellow.

“The finest,” Tom replied in languid tones.

His companion gave a sharp, satisfied nod. “Good work, Sinclair.”

Tom the footman, who was neither a footman nor called Tom, tilted his head to look at the other man. “Did you think I wouldn’t get it?”

“Never assume,” snapped Mr. Phipps. “Any trouble?”

“None.”

Phipps just grunted as the girl brought the ale, leaning forward to display her overflowing bosom. Sinclair gave her a slow smile and a golden coin. She sashayed away, casting him an inviting look over one shoulder.

“Mighty free with his lordship’s coin,” Mr. Phipps muttered over his tankard.

Sinclair lifted one shoulder. “What are his lordship’s coins for, if not to spend?”

Phipps took a long drink, then wiped the back of one hand over his mouth. Under the table he opened his hand between them. With no apparent attention, Sinclair dropped the paper from Madame’s jewel case into it. “Take this,” Phipps said, pushing a tightly folded note no larger than a shilling back into Sinclair’s hand.

“What is it?” He palmed the note without looking at it, then lifted his ale again.

“An opportunity.” Phipps slipped the paper Sinclair had given him into his own pocket. “You’ll be wanting to read that soon.”

“Why?”

“Word is you’ve got ambition.”

Sinclair was watching the barmaid, who was smiling and winking at him as she wiped down a nearby table. “Every man has ambition—even you, I daresay.”

Phipps gave an oily smirk. “Not like yours.”

Sinclair glanced sideways at him, but said nothing.

“You should take it as a commendation,” Phipps went on. “Not everyone gets a chance like that.”

Sinclair just looked at him from under lowered eyelids. “What an honor.”