“I do not believe that Mr. Dogmill would be partial to my spending my spare time with a man of Toryish inclinations, sir, but we need not say anything to him.”

“I am not in the habit of informing Mr. Dogmill of my doings,” I said.

“Well, then. It is for the best. In any event, Miss Dogmill seems to enjoy your company, and as I enjoy Miss Dogmill’s company, I see nothing wrong with accommodating her inclinations, if you take my meaning.”

I was not entirely certain I did. It was clear to me that Mr. Hertcomb had a liking for Grace Dogmill and that she had made it clear she had no intention of elevating their relations to a more legal status. Why then did he consent to my accompanying them? I could only imagine that he did not see me as a rival- or he had something else in mind that superseded his amorous inclinations.

“If I may venture to be bold,” I said, “I have observed that, though he is your agent and you work quite closely with him, you are perhaps none too fond of Mr. Dogmill.”

He laughed and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, we have no need to be friends, you know. Our families have long been linked, and as an election agent he does a marvelous good job. I can’t say I would stand a chance in this race without him.

“I am in far beyond my understanding,” he went on, “and Dogmill is quite skillful at managing treacherous waters. Those Tories have a strong presence in Westminster, and if Dogmill is right, there is more at issue here than just a seat in Parliament. If we lose here, the country could find itself overrun with Jacobites.”

“Do you believe that to be true?”

“I don’t know if it is true,” he said, “but it is what I believe.” He took a moment to look meaningfully into his goblet.

“What are your beliefs, then, sir?” I asked warmly.

He laughed again. “Oh, you know, the usual Whig sort of things. Less Church and all that. Protecting the fellow with new ideas from old money. Serving the king, I suppose. There are one or two others, though I don’t recall them just now. It’s just that a man can’t always do what he likes in the House.”

“You mean because of Dogmill?” I asked.

“If I may be honest with you, Mr. Evans, I must say that I should very much like to part ways with Dogmill- after this election, of course. I tell you this in confidence. I am surprised to even hear myself utter the words, but for whatever reason I find myself taking a liking to you. And I have never before seen any man stand up to Dogmill so boldly.”

I laughed. “There is something in him that makes me long to antagonize the fellow. It is the very devil that comes out of me.”

“You should not do so lightly. He has a most horrendous temper. Last year, as I began to prepare myself for this election, I approached Dogmill to tell him that I wished not to use him for my election agent. I had hardly even begun to speak when he turned red and stammered and paced back and forth. He held a glass of wine in his hand, and I tell you he shattered it with his brute strength. He bled tremendously but hardly even noticed.”

“What did you do?”

“I could do nothing,” he said. “Dogmill stared at me. His eyes were wild. Blood and wine dripped from his hand. He said, ‘What do you say to me, sir?’ again and again, and did so in a voice that would make the Devil himself tremble. And I merely shook my head. He threw open the door, leaving a bloody handprint on the paint, and we never discussed the matter again. I never spoke of it to anyone.”

“I am honored by your confidence.”

“And I am impressed by your courage. I can only hope you will not suffer for it.” He drained his goblet with an air of finality. “Now, let us forget these unpleasant matters and get on with our evening’s entertainment.”

Once we reached Drury Lane, I was met with a half dozen or so others, young people of both sexes. I exchanged names with each, but if I am to be honest I must say that I remember not a one of them, even the ladies, who were all quite handsome. I had eyes only for Miss Dogmill.

She wore a wonderfully flattering gown of pale blue with an immaculate and enticingly cut bodice. Her dark hair had been piled flatteringly under a matching wide-brimmed hat. She looked for all the world like the finest young lady in the kingdom, and I was delighted that she took my arm at once and allowed me to lead her into the theater.

“It is a pleasure to see you once more, Miss Dogmill,” I said.

“I am delighted to be the source of such pleasure,” she told me.

I observed that Mr. Hertcomb, who chatted amiably with one of the other young men, cast in our direction some significant glances. Again, I could not easily divine what it was he wanted of me, but despite his kind words, I was determined to remain on my guard around him. And if he wished to court Miss Dogmill, he would have a hard road to run competing with Mr. Evans.

I settled warmly into my smugness, though in truth here was something of a dilemma. As I strolled into the theater dressed in my fine suit and fashionable wig, arm in arm with a striking young lady, I could not have been more charmed with the role I had chosen to play. I was Matthew Evans, prosperous bachelor, presumably in search of a wife. I had become the subject of gossip among the single ladies of the beau monde. As we climbed the stairs to our box, I heard other theatergoers whisper my name. That’s Mr. Evans, the Jamaica man I told you of, I heard one creature whisper. It appears Grace Dogmill has snatched him up.

And yet, for all of these delights, I could not stop reminding myself that I lived an ugly falsehood. If Miss Dogmill knew who I was she would recoil in horror. I was a Jew who lived by his fists, a fugitive wanted for murder, and I sought to destroy her brother. It would be cruel, monstrous cruel, to allow her to develop any affection for the persona I’d assumed by necessity. I understood that. And yet I was so enchanted by my habitation in this world that had always been denied me, I was ill prepared to heed the niggling voice of morality.

Could it be, I thought, that this was the sensation that had so seduced Miriam? Perhaps it had not been Melbury and all his charms but London, Christian London, that had done it. If I could have become Matthew Evans, with his money and his station and his license to move in society, would I have done so? I could not, even to myself, answer the question.

We all took our seats in the box, and I glanced over to the stage where the play, Addison’s Cato, was already well under way. A fine choice, certainly, for this election season, for the play celebrated a great statesman who embraced civic virtue over fashionable corruption. No doubt the theater manager had thought to draw a large crowd with this choice, and he had successfully done so, but so volatile a play could easily ignite public passion- and it did.

We had been sitting not ten minutes when Mr. Barton Booth, in the role of Cato, began to deliver a rousing speech on corruption in the senate. A fellow in the pit shouted, “Corruption in the senate? We wouldn’t know nothing about that one.”

This drew a great laugh from the audience, and while the intrepid thespian plowed ahead with his lines, another man shouted, “Melbury’s our Cato! He’s the only one with virtue here!”

Now I looked up. Mr. Melbury was in a box across the theater from ours, and he rose and took a bow to the cheers of the audience.

Onstage, the players ceased their playing, waiting for the audience to return some small fraction of their attention. I could see that they would have a long wait. “Melbury be damned,” someone else called. “The damned Romish Jacobite Tories be damned!”

At all of this, Hertcomb began to turn the color of an old farmer’s cheese, and he slumped his head into his chest. The very last thing in the world he desired was that an incensed crowd of Tory theatergoers should recognize him. I can hardly say I blamed him. By the time I saw a few pieces of fruit take flight, I took hold of Miss Dogmill’s arm. “I believe it is time I took you someplace less combustible.”