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Gerald’s effortful—but unvoiced—last word.
    “Dashwood.”
    Quarry had followed him, brows drawn down in puzzlement.
    “What the devil, Grey? Why are you making faces in the mirror? Are you ill?”
    “No,” said Grey, though in fact he felt very ill. He stared at his own image in the mirror, as though it were some ghastly specter.
    Another face appeared, and dark eyes met his own in the mirror. The two reflections were close in size and form, both possessed of a tidy muscularity and a fineness of feature that had led more than one observer to remark in company that they could be twins—one light, one dark.
    “You will come to Medmenham, won’t you?” The murmured words were warm in his ear, George’s body so close that he could feel the pressure of hip and thigh. Everett’s hand touched his, lightly.
    “I should…particularly desire it.”

Part III

    Christened in Blood
    Medmenham Abbey
West Wycombe
    I t was not until the third night at Medmenham that anything untoward occurred. To that point—despite Quarry’s loudly expressed doubts beforehand—it had been a house party much like any other in Lord John’s experience, though with more talk of politics and less of hunting than was customary.
    In spite of the talk and entertainment, though, there was an odd air of secrecy about the house. Whether it was some attitude on the part of the servants, or something unseen but sensed among the guests, Grey could not tell, but it was real; it floated on the air of the Abbey like smoke on water.
    The only other oddity was the lack of women. While females of good family from the countryside near West Wycombe were invited to dine, all of the houseguests were male. The thought occurred to Grey that from outward appearance, it might almost be one of those sodomitical societies so decried in the London broadsheets. In appearance only, though; there was no hint of such behavior. Even George Everett gave no hint of any sentiment save the amiability of renewed friendship.
    No, it was not that kind of behavior that had given Sir Francis and his restored abbey the name of scandal. Exactly what
did
lie behind the whispers of notoriety was yet a mystery.
    Grey knew one thing: Dashwood was not Gerald’s murderer, at least not directly. Discreet inquiry had established Sir Francis’s whereabouts, and shown him far from Forby Street at the time of the outrage. There was the possibility of hired assassination, though, and Robert Gerald had seen
something
in the moment of his death that caused him to utter that last silent accusation.
    There was nothing so far to which Grey could point as evidence, either of guilt or depravity. Still, if evidence was to be found anywhere, it must be at Medmenham—the deconsecrated abbey which Sir Francis had restored from ruins and made a showplace for his political ambitions.
    Among the talk and entertainments, though, Grey was conscious of a silent process of evaluation, plain in the eyes and manner of his companions. He was being watched, his fitness gauged—but for what?
    “What is it that Sir Francis wants with me?” he had asked bluntly, walking in the gardens with Everett on the second afternoon. “I have nothing to appeal to such a man.”
    George smiled. He wore his own hair, dark and shining, and the chilly breeze stroked strands of it across his cheeks.
    “You underestimate your own merits, John—as always. Of course, nothing becomes manly virtue more than simple modesty.” He glanced sidelong, mouth quirking with appreciation.
    “I scarce think my personal attributes are sufficient to intrigue a man of Dashwood’s character,” Grey answered dryly.
    “More to the point,” Everett said, arching one brow, “what is it in Sir Francis that so intrigues
you
? You have not spoke of anything, save to question me about him.”
    “You would be better suited to answer that than I,” Grey answered boldly. “I hear you are an intimate—the valet tells me you have been a guest at