"We are trying to procure an invitation to this afternoon's Drawing Room. We intend to present a young lady to the queen."
"Impossible."
"Quite possible."
"But what are you coming to me for? I can't give you access to Buckingham Palace—and certainly not at this hour. You'd need to speak to the Lord Chamberlain."
"We have tried—without success. Hence my request."
The archdeacon's lip curled. "I fear he may be rather out of your reach, Madam. Even your charms have their limits."
Quinn studied him coolly through her veil. "But yours don't. Go to the Lord Chamberlain at once."
"Look here, enough is enough. I can't possibly..." The archdeacon shook his top hat at her. "Extortion is one thing. But to poke a chap's social currency, ask him to call in favors from his friends? It simply won't do. I shall have to go to the police."
They'd been through this a hundred times before. Quinn unfolded a banknote from her sleeve. "First payment, Archdeacon, as a goodwill gesture. And the next to follow later this week. I need an admittance card."
Sometimes Quinn wondered if it would count against her at the gates of paradise, offering so many bribes to men of the cloth. Apparently, it didn't worry the archdeacon.
"You really are quite an extraordinary young woman," he said, folding the banknote into his pocket. "Silk's trained you so remarkably well. You appear perfectly well bred."
Quinn ignored this. "How quickly can you get me the card?"
"I can't make you any promises. You shall have to supply me with all the references: moral character of the girl in question, the name of a lady to make the presentation..."
"Naturally. But I shall expect the card to be in my hand the moment I arrive at the palace. You have five hours."
"You are asking me to move heaven and earth, Madam. I can guarantee you nothing."
"Do you wish to repay your advance, Archdeacon?"
He studied her for a long moment. Then sagged, beaten. "Very well. I shall try my very best. Who's your victim this time?"
"Victim?"
"Your quarry, your kill? Who do you intend to ruin this week?"
Quinn saw no harm in telling him. They had him by the throat; he was employed by the Château under indentured servitude.
"The Kendal family," she said. "Do you know them?"
The archdeacon began to laugh in disbelief. "Know them?" he repeated, slapping his thighs, as if the joke were too good to be true. "Do I know them?"
Quinn would have quite happily shoved him into a passing omnibus. But his face suddenly became serious.
"You don't stand a chance."
CHAPTER TWO
TOR
Kendal House was once considered a handsome building: one of the oldest residences in Berkeley Square, Palladian in its lines, constructed from honeyed limestone. Now it was transformed. A house so lavishly remodeled it might have been stricken with scarlet fever, fronted with crimson sandstone and blood-colored brick. It was wide and flat-faced, seven bays across, adorned with dark pediments and moldings that looked like devils' wings.
But Tor thought it was a perfect house, the best in London. It stood vast and aloof on the north side of Berkeley Square, running to its own rhythms, containing myriad wonders: the orchid house heated with steam pipes; the oak staircase crenellated in the medieval style; the magnificent smoking parlor, festooned with rich silks and giltwork. Its perfection transferred itself on to the servants and the horses; it ran through every polished, lacquered line and flickered in the electric lights.
It was the best house anywhere.
