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Cousin Agnes, were I you. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
    “I see you haven’t changed one iota. So unlike your brother.” She sounded wistful. “Dear Peter! Now he is such a hardworking and useful member of society! A loyal member of the House and always working in its best interests. He’s an example to us all.”
    I’d barely given Peter a thought for years. He’s five years my elder, and he’s so far enmeshed in House business he’s invisible. We have nothing in common, and emulating him doesn’t stand high on my list of ambitions. Agnes was fond of Peter and fond of comparing us, to my detriment. I didn’t care. He was welcome to her and her peppermints and mothballs.
    “Peter? I haven’t seen him for what? Six or seven years now. Seven. We last met at Papa’s funeral and that was 1892. Where is old Peter these days? Calcutta? Bangkok?”
    I was sorry I asked. I suffered through a recitation of Peter’s accomplishments over the last seven years and how in each new posting he proved what a credit he was to the House. Said with a sniff and the look that reminded me I was the opposite. Apparently Peter was currently in Shanghai, building a fortune in silk, ivory, and opium. God help the poor Chinese. They would need all their reputed inscrutability to deal with Peter Lancaster.
    “Good for him” was all I said, swallowing a yawn and making sure Cousin Agnes saw me do it.
    When I was a child, she’d had a habit of sneering by flaring her nostrils and twisting her mouth up at one side. It was more pronounced now that her skin was laced with fine wrinkles. It wasn’t a flattering look for her. “Very well, Rafe. I can see it’s of little use appealing to your moral conscience about your duty to the House—”
    “None at all, Cousin.”
    “Then your rent is ten shillings a week with laundry included. No meals provided other than breakfast, which we serve in the parlor between nine and ten. The staff remove the dishes precisely when the clock strikes ten. Visitors by prior arrangement and gentlemen only. If you come in late, do so without disturbing anyone.” She took the first week’s rent with the sort of snappy wrist action a card player might envy, and with evident reluctance, handed over a set of house keys. “Since you have deigned to return, you might wish to consider approaching the Stravaigor. He may have advice to offer on your future. Once you have apologized and he has forgiven your offenses, of course.”
    “I’ll consider doing just that,” I lied, and made my escape. I left the two kit bags for the housemaid to unpack, although I took out my service pistol in its wooden box and hid it under the bed before wandering out into the cold of a raw November day to explore a metropolis I hadn’t seen since my father’s death.
    The day was still heavy with the threat of snow, and the wind was piercing. Thank heavens I still had my military greatcoat, made from thick, warm wool. I’d cursed it in Lucknow and the Cape, but with the hem coming well below the tops of my boots, it was thick enough and long enough to keep out the worst of the biting winds. I’d had to remove the insignia, of course, and replace the braid with a less ostentatious frogging—at least, Hugh Peters had, since he was a dab hand with a needle and I most certainly wasn’t. I pushed my hands into the pockets and slithered and slid on the icy pavements, working my way down Montague Street and the side of the Britannic Museum and turning into Great Russell Street to stand regarding the grand museum entrance from the gate.
    Another childhood place, the museum. My governess, when I was small, and the tutors at Eton later, used to take me there so I could savor the full experience of our glorious Imperial history. It’s a huge building, a hollowed out square with two entire floors of things my educators felt I needed to know about. I can remember staring at fragments of pots and broken statuary until I was sure my