Ian had planned to spy on Juliana in the conservatory, but then he’d stumbled over Abington sprawled in the corridor. The man was nearly insensible with drink. “What disguise?” Ian tucked his arm around the other man and hefted him to his feet. “Glavenstroke told me he’d sent an operative to look into Sommet. As soon as I saw the guest list, I knew it must be you.” He’d worked with Abington briefly a few years ago in Constantinople, where Abington had been training a group of Greek rebels. He’d heard rumor that Abington had become somewhat unstable since his return to London. Now, Ian was normally the last person to require stability. He hardly ever slept in the same place two nights in a row, but when it was Juliana’s country—her life—at risk, he found he had very little tolerance for this nonsense. “Officially, have no idea what you’re talking about. Unofficially, what the devil are you doing here?
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