It was a house that Morton could never dream of possessing, and one that he admired more than he cared to admit. In truth, Lord Arthur was a man Morton envied, and envy, he well knew, was not the healthiest of human emotions. It was fortunate that Morton's envy was leavened by a strong liking and respect. Darley was a man of such enormous charm that Morton could hardly waste a moment resenting him. Even their peculiar understanding about the lovely and broad-minded Mrs. Arabella Malibrant did not spoil his liking of Darley. A liveried servant let him in and took his top hat. It was a warm, humid July night, and the coolness of the house was welcome. A smiling Darley appeared before Morton had been led across the entry. He was a pleasant, greying gentleman, impeccably dressed but somehow as relaxed as a man out for a country walk with his gun and hounds. “Morton! It is so good of you to come. Please”—he gestured toward a door—“Mrs. Malibrant awaits. She tells me that she is an acting Bow Street Runner and has all manner of news for you.”
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