“I know,” said Sebastian, not looking up from the serious business of tying a fresh cravat. “Do what you can to get the smell out. But if it doesn’t work, burn it.” Jules Calhoun drew back in mock astonishment. “What? You mean to say you don’t fancy walking around London smelling like a hundred-year-old cadaver?” “A hundred years might be all right. It’s the in-between stages that are the smelliest.” The valet gave a soft laugh. A small, slim gentleman’s gentleman in his thirties, Calhoun had started life in one of the most notorious flash houses in London—a beginning that had left him with an undeniable flair and a variety of useful connections to the city’s underworld. Assembling the rest of Sebastian’s discarded raiment, Calhoun bundled the offending clothes together and said, “Are you likely to be returning to St. Margaret’s?” “Possibly.” “Then I suggest we keep these.” Sebastian smoothed the folds of his cravat. “Good point.” The valet watched Sebastian slide a slim dagger into the sheath hidden inside his right boot.
