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Phipps exhaled a snort of disgust, then gulped down the rest of his ale before shoving to his feet. With only a brief nod, he slapped a cap on his head and started to turn toward the door.

“One question,” said Sinclair behind him, although without much curiosity. “Why Wollaston?”

Phipps was at his side in the blink of an eye, hands braced on the table. “Why is not your concern,” he hissed. “You do what you’re told.”

“And take no notice of the fact that no one seems to mind what the Frenchwoman does with the information he gives her.” Sinclair’s eyes glittered before sliding away, back toward the buxom barmaid. “And it’s not your neck in the noose, is it, Mr. Phipps? It’s mine, if I get caught.”

“You knew that from the beginning.”

“Aye,” agreed Sinclair after a moment, in the same emotionless voice. “I did.”

Phipps swung around and stomped out the door.

Sinclair stayed where he was and drank his ale. After a while the serving girl came back, running her fingers along the collar of his evening jacket and whispering an invitation in his ear. He gave her a half-hearted smile and his last coin, then gathered his hat and walking stick and left.

Outside, he stopped beneath the first gas lamp he came to, fishing the folded note from his pocket. He held it up to the light, squinting at the cramped handwriting, reading it three times before understanding what it said.

For a moment he stood motionless, his face drawn in thought. A hackney clattered by, and he stuffed the note back into his pocket. Then he strolled off into the darkness, swinging his walking stick and quietly whistling a tune.

Chapter One

1820

London

* * *

Doncaster House was a true mansion, an imposing edifice in the grandest style set in Mayfair. Tall windows glowed with candlelight and the front doors were thrown wide open to admit the throngs of elegantly attired guests climbing the steps. The air was filled with the soft strains of music from inside the house, and the jingle of harnesses and the clatter of carriage wheels outside. The guests would number in the hundreds, all of them wealthy, fashionable, and important.

One man surveyed the scene from under lowered brows as he mounted the steps, rapping his cane sharply on each tread. He had never been to Doncaster House before, and his eyes roamed over the expanse of stone and glass and wrought iron as if he were counting the window panes and pediments. Halfway up the steps he paused, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket to blot his face.

A pair of young men burst through the doors, talking and laughing in the careless, too-loud manner of men who have drunk too much. They clattered down the steps, jostling him out of the way without so much as a backward glance. He teetered on the steps for a moment before a footman hurrying in their wake came to his aid, offering his arm and a murmured solicitation. The guest nodded, leaning heavily on the footman until he got his balance back.

“Blasted scoundrels,” he muttered, breathing heavily. “In my day, young men knew better than to go about too foxed to walk straight.”

“Yes, sir,” murmured the footman, discreetly slipping one hand under the gentleman’s elbow as he helped him up the step.

“And mind, I’m not sorry to be in my dotage, if that is England’s future,” the old man went on. “Save for your old age now, lad, and pray they don’t bring the country to complete ruin!”

“Yes, sir.” The footman eased him up another step.

“If my boys had behaved that way, I’d have taken a cane to them, I would have...” His voice trailed off, and he sighed. “Eh, but they’re both dead now. Gone with my dear wife nearly thirty years ago to the consumption.”

“Terribly sorry, sir,” said the footman, urging him up the last step.

“What, what? Not your fault.” He patted the footman’s arm. “There’s a good lad. Write to your mother, won’t you?”

“Er—Yes, sir.” The footman bowed as the old man went into the house, leaning on his cane and favoring his left leg.

Inside the house, the elderly gentleman shuffled through the bustle, handing off his cloak and hat to another footman and making his way toward the ballroom to greet his host. It was a grand ball, but he’d arrived rather late, and the receiving line had dwindled to almost naught.

“Lord Henry Wroth,” a servant announced him.

The Earl of Doncaster turned toward him and bowed, tall and urbane, his dark hair threaded with silver. “Good evening, sir.”

“And to you.” Lord Wroth executed a shaky bow over the countess’s hand. “Good evening, my lady.”

“Welcome to our home,” said Lady Doncaster with a gracious smile. She was younger than her husband, quite beautiful, and exquisitely dressed. “How kind of you to come.”