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Gavin's doorstep a year ago, Gavin had greeted him like a long-lost brother rather than an old orphanage chum he hadn't seen in fifteen years. It was Gavin who'd helped him settle on his new name, Hadrian after the great Roman emperor who'd started out life as an orphan, and St. Claire because they'd both agreed it had a certain cachet--a solid, old-money ring certain to put people with real money at their ease. He'd ferried Hadrian around to soirees and theater receptions, to rich old biddy's "at-homes" and to his gentlemen's club, putting him in the path of every well-heeled friend and acquaintance he could come up with. While Gavin made do with letting a shabby suite of rooms at the Inns of Court, he'd fronted Hadrian the money to set up in Parliament Square. How then could he ask such a friend for five hundred pounds more, a sum that as a junior barrister Gavin likely didn't have anyway, to bail him out of a situation brought on by nothing more than his own recklessness? No, he'd let Sykes and Deans flay him alive before he'd stoop so low as to take advantage of his friend any further.
    Brave sentiment that and yet the clang of the shop bell below gave him such a start that he very nearly knocked the washbasin from its stand.
Get hold of yourself, man. When Boyle and company come for you, it won't be through the front door.
    But it was late, past six o'clock, and with the exception of the Parliament, which would reconvene at nine for the evening session, the government offices and area shops would be dark by now as his too should be if only he'd remembered to turn his sign over to C LOSED. Heart drumming, he stripped off his apron and hurried down the stairs. Seeing neither Boyle nor his henchmen but a well-dressed man of late middle age pacing his shop floor, he let his lungs expand with relief. "May I help you, sir?" he asked, stepping forward.
    "That depends." The gentleman turned about and Hadrian saw that this was no apple-cheeked shopkeeper or government clerk but a senior statesman or government official of rank, the very sort of well-heeled client he'd set up shop hoping to attract.
    "Are you St. Claire?" he asked, gaze flickering over Hadrian in such a way that he was reminded he hadn't taken time to roll down his shirtsleeves or put back on his tie.
    "I am."
    Like a phrenologist feeling the bumps on a skull to infer mental faculties and character, Hadrian examined the gaunt, weathered face for the clues housed within flesh and bone. A high forehead etched with deep lines almost always meant the subject was a worrier. The long, thin nose and flared nostrils bespoke of arrogance, an absolute belief in his superiority to others. The down-turned mouth betrayed bitterness--life might owe him everything, but so far the rewards received had been less than satisfactory. But as always it was the eyes more so than any other feature that gave away the subject and meeting those icy gray orbs, so pale they appeared opaque, Hadrian read--merciless.
    "Josiah Dandridge, MP for Horsham." The introduction was not accompanied by the customary extension of hand.
    Glancing down, Hadrian saw that the attache case Dandridge carried was covered in Moroccan leather and embossed with the Parliamentary seal. "And how may I assist you, Mr. Dandridge?"
    "How, indeed?" Dandridge strolled over to the display case where Hadrian set out samples of his most popular item, the pocket-sized portrait photographs known as
cartes de visites.
Tapping on the glass, he asked, "This portrait is the same displayed in your shop window, is it not?"
    Coming up beside him, Hadrian glanced down at the portrait card of Lady Katherine Lindsey and nodded. "Lady Katherine is my bestselling 'PB' at the moment."
    The PBs, or Professional Beauties, were society ladies who consented to have their portraits displayed for sale in shop windows all over London. Only in Lady Katherine's case, in return for Hadrian's turning over to her half of the money from every copy sold,