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most congenial assembly, I am sure?" Bubb-Dodington was saying, leaning toward Grey with that same attitude of fawning attention he had noted earlier.
    "You feel I would be in sympathy with the interests of your society?" Grey contrived to infuse a faint tone of boredom, looking away from the man. Just over Bubb-Dodington's shoulder, he was conscious of the figure of Sir Francis Dashwood, dark and bulky. Dashwood's deepset eyes rested upon them, even as he carried on a conversation, and a ripple of apprehension raised the hairs on the back of Grey's neck,
    "I am flattered, but I scarcely think..." he began, turning away.
    "Oh, do not think you would be quite strange!" Bubb-Dodington interrupted, beaming with oily deprecation. "You are acquainted with Mr. Everett, I think? He will make one of our number."
    "Indeed." Grey's mouth had gone dry. "I see. Well, you must allow me to consult..." Muttering excuses, he escaped, finding refuge a moment later in the company of Harry Quarry and his sister-in-law, sharing cups of brandy-punch at the nearby buffet.
    "It galls me," Harry was saying, "that such petty time-servers and flaunting jackanapes make my kin to be the equal of the he-strumpets and buggerantoes that infest the Arcade. I've known Bob Gerald from a lad, and I will swear my life upon his honor!" Quarry's large hand clenched upon his glass as he glowered at Mr. Justice Margrave's back.
    "Have a care, Harry, my dear." Lucinda placed a hand on his sleeve. "Those are my good crystal cups. If you must crush something, let it be the hazelnuts."
    "I shall let it be that fellow's windpipe, and he does not cease to air his idiocy," said Quarry. He scowled horridly, but suffered himself to be turned away, still talking. "What can Richard be thinking of, to entertain such scum? Dashwood, I mean, and now this..."
    Grey started, and felt a chill down his spine. Quarry's blunt features bore no trace of resemblance to his dead cousin-by-marriage; and yet -- his face contorted with fury, eyes bulging slightly as he spoke... Grey closed his eyes tightly, summoning the vision.
    He left Quarry and Lady Lucinda abruptly, without excuse, and made his way hastily to the large gilded mirror that hung above a sideboard in the dining room.
    Leaning over the skeletal remains of a roasted pheasant, he stared at his mouth -- painstakingly forming the shapes he had seen on Robert Gerald's mouth -- and now again on Harry Quarry's; hearing in his mind as he made them, the sound of Robert 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 spectre.
    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.
     

Medmenham

Abbey West Wycombe
     
    It 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