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Gratitude overwhelmed him. Even when he was in extremis, Emily lifted his spirits and made anything seem possible.

“I shall remember that if I lose what little decorum is left to me and punch Fernsby in the jaw again,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Again?”

“Again,” he repeated, starting up the stairs. “And I sincerely hope the bruise is visible.”

Emily gave a gratified smile. “It is.”

The front door was open, and Aunt Millward’s voice was rising.

“I am fully aware that Lord Southbeck is in a private meeting,” she said. “That is exactly why we are here.”

“If you wish to make an appointment to see Lord Southbeck at a later date, I am happy to make arrangements for you.” The butler had positioned himself in the center of the doorway and showed no sign of moving.

Aunt Millward glared at the man. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, my lady.”

The question was a testament to Aunt Millward’s level of anxiety. Henry had never heard her pull rank on anyone before. And unfortunately, it did not seem to be having its desired effect. He and Emily joined his aunt and Townsend on the top step.

“My name is Buckland,” Henry said. “I am one of the British Museum’s curators. Lord Claridge personally invited me and my colleague, Mr. Townsend, to attend this meeting of the board of trustees. I grant that we are late, but it is imperative that we join the other gentlemen before they dismiss.”

“Mr. Buckland, you say.”

“That is correct. And Mr. Townsend.”

The butler eyed Henry’s disheveled appearance, then he withdrew a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

Henry might not have a title or a cravat, but it seemed that he had the right connection.

The butler replaced the slip of paper and stepped aside to admit them into the hall.

“This way, if you please.”

He led them through the entry hall and into a long passage lined on one side with windows and on the other with paintings. Three doors punctuated the long row of paintings, and beside each door was an elegant chair upholstered in gold brocade.

“Please take a seat, Lady Millward,” the butler said, stopping beside the first door and its accompanying chair. “And you, miss,” he added, gesturing toward the chair a little farther down the passage.

“I shall attend the meeting,” Aunt Millward said.

The butler tucked his hands behind his back and inclined his head. “With all due respect, my lady, only those whose names are on the paper Lord Southbeck gave me are allowed entry.”

“Good heavens!”

Aunt Millward’s indignation was reaching new, unchartered levels, but before Henry could intervene, Emily stepped forward and laid her hand on the older lady’s arm. “Henry is not entering the lion’s den alone, Aunt Millward. Mr. Townsend will be with him.”

With a frown, Aunt Millward dropped onto the chair. “I am not happy about this arrangement.”

“Neither am I,” Emily whispered, “but seeing as Lord Southbeck’s butler is so diligent, someone will need to listen for Mr. Toole’s arrival, because the poor man will not be allowed in otherwise.”

Henry had never met Mr. Toole, but he thought it highly unlikely that a Bow Street runner would need the assistance of either Aunt Millward or Emily.

His aunt did not seem to be of the same mind, however, for with a surreptitious glance at the butler, who was now standing guard over the nearby door, she clasped her hands upon her knee and leaned back in the chair. “You’d best go and say your piece, Henry,” she said. “Emily and I shall be here if you need us.”

Henry did not hesitate. Assuming that Townsend was at his heels, he approached the butler. The conscientious servant offered Henry a small bow, knocked, and then opened the door. Someone was speaking. Henry did not recognize the voice, but at the butler’s sudden interruption, whoever it was stopped talking midsentence.

“Mr. Buckland and Mr. Townsend,” the butler announced.