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He knew this was where men gathered to talk rather than to be seen. He swirled his drink in his right hand and kept his left tucked behind his back, a picture of nonchalance.

Let’s see what we have over here.

He found what he was looking for near the second alcove. There were three men wearing various avian masks, their heads bent close together as they clearly discussed something they didn’t want overheard.

Nathaniel drew to a halt a few feet away, his back to them, and feigned interest in his drink.

“… hasn’t been seen since spring,” one of them was saying, his voice pitched low but carrying like men’s voices did when they had imbibed too much wine. “Cumberlea vanished from every club in London. Nowhere to be seen. A damn ghost.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” a second voice remarked, drier and older. “After that unseemly business with the late Marchioness…”

“That’s one way of putting it,” the first man said.

“Well, a man doesn’t stay popular forever, whatever his charm,” the second man opined. “Although he’s disappeared before.”

“Oh, he will rise from the ashes, like the phoenix he is. He always does.” The third man, even older than the second by the sound of his voice, gave a short laugh. “He and our host have some venture in the works, or did, last I heard.”

“Is that so? Do tell,” the first man demanded as he took a flask out of his jacket pocket and refilled the third man’s cup.

“Some shipping concern, I believe. A new trade route that would cut down transport by half,” the third man explained.

“That is quite a prospect,” the second chimed in. “I wish I had gotten in on that, even if the goods are… unseemly.”

“Yes, well, now you know why I am certain that Cumberlea wouldn’t vanish entirely. Not with money on the table. He doesn’t let a profitable connection go cold,” the third man said. “And I am hoping I may be able to finagle my way into this. I’ve been looking to finance something like this, a sure profit. If anyone in London knows where to find him, it’s our host.”

“Assuming our host would ever tell you,” the first man pointed out.

“I wouldn’t dream of asking outright. A man doesn’t pry into his affairs, not if he wants to keep coming back. I will play it smart,” the third man declared as he lit up a pipe and began to puff on it.

The conversation died down, the three of them moving off toward the platform as the murmurs in the room shifted pitch. All the men began gathering toward whatever was about to begin.

Nathaniel didn’t follow. He stood very still, turning the words over in his mind as though they might yield something further if he examined them long enough.

That is my in. The host knows where Cumberlea is.

Of course he did. Of course, the host was his key to finding Cumberlea. A man who ran a business like this one, invisible, untouchable, known only to the men wealthy and discreet enough to be trusted with such commerce, would keep track of every thread that ran through his web. Surely, this included a business partner who’d made himself scarce.

The investigator hadn’t been able to buy him an introduction to that man for any price. But Nathaniel was standing in his house tonight, and he didn't intend to leave without finding a way to be noticed.

How does one earn an introduction to a man who does not wish to be found?

He was still mulling it over when a flash of movement across the room caught his eye and scattered the thought entirely.

A young woman stood near the far wall, half-turned toward the door as though she meant to bolt through it. Her sharp green eyes were too wide, her cheeks as pink as a posy.

She wasn’t like the other women who were milling about the room, resigned to their fates. This beautiful creature looked like she had only just understood where she was and didn't intend to stay a moment longer if she could help it.

Who is she?

Laura had stopped listening to her father the instant she understood what “solve our problems” meant. He was referring to his own problem, which was singularly her. Instead, she turned her ear to a group of women nearby.

“I am so nervous,” a young girl said to an older woman next to her. “My parents died, and my granduncle has forced me into this auction. He hasn’t the patience nor the funds to sponsor a Season. This is it for me.”

“You have your youth,” the older woman pointed out. “I had my time and did not find a proper suitor. My father thought it time to take matters into his own hands, and now here I am. To be sold to the highest bidder… not that there will be many.”

The words resonated deep in Laura’s bones. As much as it pained her to admit, she had not helped her own cause.

She had spent four Seasons finding ways to be unlovable in public. A loud laugh, an opinion too sharply expressed, walking away from suitors mid-sentence.