Between Mr. Pattle’s carriage and the new suit he’d had made up since joining the Brigade, he looked the part. He chose, from a collection of gentlemen’s cards he had accumulated over the years, one for a J. Jerome Greene, The Alders, Kent. He realized his language wasn’t quite up to scratch, but he’d hint that he’d made his fortune in trade. The churches weren’t as nice as the aristos about a fellow’s background, as long as the dibs were in tune. Come to that, the aristos were beginning to smarten up as well. Take Whitbred, made his fortune in brewing, and now hobnobbed with the tip of the ton. After pounding a thorough explanation of the route into Fitz’s thick head, he got to the chapel with only a few side excursions. He assumed the newish brick house to the side of the chapel was where the top churchman lived. He went to the door and presented Mr. Greene’s card to a butler who was not nearly as fine as Evans. “Doctor Calvert is at the chapel this morning, sir,”
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