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“Have you spent a lot of time here?” She glanced at him, licking a drop of wine from her lips.

Alec knew, because he was watching her from the corner of his eye. “A few years,” he murmured.

Behind them, the door opened. Two servants brought in trays and began setting out a hearty dinner. When they left, Alec pulled out a chair for Miss Turner and then sat across from her. For a while they addressed themselves to the meal.

“This is delicious,” said his companion. Her plate was almost empty.

“I never forget an inn with a good kitchen,” he said with a grin.

“Better to remember which ones haven’t one.”

“In London,” he replied, “it’s easier to remember the ones that are good.”

She laughed.

He took a deep breath. He didn’t want to tell her what he’d found. She was in a good mood, and he wanted to keep it that way. But he also had promised to tell her everything he learned, and the sooner he got it over with, the better. “I discovered some things on my errands,” he said. “Would you like me to tell you now, or after dinner?”

She froze, fork in mid-air. Slowly she laid it down, then drained her wineglass. “Now, please,” she murmured.

Alec refilled her glass. “The good news is that he’s still not in the Fleet prison.” A faint smile flickered over her mouth. “He’s also not at the Dove’s Nest, as Mr. Prenner hinted, nor has he been since disappearing.”

She looked at him steadily. “The Dove’s Nest is a—a brothel, isn’t it?”

He dipped his head yes.

She sighed. “I suppose I should be relieved he hasn’t been hiding there, spending all our money.”

Alec nodded. “And I believe I know what sort of lithographs Prenner bought from him.”

Miss Turner’s head jerked up. “What? You do? What sort?”

“You needn’t look at them,” he tried to say, but she shook her head impatiently.

“Do you have one? Where did you find them?”

Alec drew the pages from his coat pocket. “At a coffee house. These are signed Tesserarius, which was a Roman sergeant, and this one was published not long after a payment from Prenner.” He held out the papers.

She snatched them and smoothed them flat, and he watched her face drain of color. Alec didn’t think the images were that bad, but then again, it wasn’t his beloved father drawing them.

The first portrayed the King as a fat sow, and the piglets suckling at the teats were labeled with the names of Cabinet ministers. A gaunt John Bull figure slopped the pigs with a bucket of coins. The second showed the King, corpulent and visibly drunk, dancing with a bevy of scandalously clad women on a carpet that looked to be woven of men in army uniforms. They were no worse than what Prenner openly displayed in his shop windows.

“These are about the King! What was Papa thinking?” Miss Turner gripped the pages in anxiety. “Would he be sent to prison for this?”

Alec shook his head. “Libel is difficult to prosecute, and going after one artist would only make his lithographs the most talked-about pictures in London. The government has been mocked far more harshly than this and done nothing except bribe the offending printer not to sell any more.” He reached across the table and plucked the papers from her limp fingers, folding them back into his pocket.

“Then we haven’t learned anything!” She exhaled and reached for the wine glass. “My father despises the government, and sold some cruel drawings to that shifty little printer. But you say that wouldn’t have endangered him, and we still don’t know where he is now or why he left.”

“It’s a piece of the puzzle,” he reminded her. “I’ve learned not to overlook anything, just because I cannot see the entire solution.”

She dashed one hand across her face. Alec pretended not to see the angry tears. “You told me we might discover something unpleasant.”

He hesitated. “Yes. It’s always a chance. But it’s hardly proof of a grim outcome.”

“Yet,” she said under her breath. “He was tempting fate, though, wasn’t he?”

Alec took his time replying. The lithographs were obviously to make money, which was understandable given Turner’s limited income. But he’d sold Prenner maybe a dozen, which wasn’t nearly enough to account for the sums Turner had spent. Alec’s mind kept going back to the money.

“Perhaps no more than any of us do,” he finally replied. “Perhaps he drew them at Prenner’s suggestion. Prenner would know what would sell far better than a soldier living in Marston.”