Penelope's stomach sank.
She felt the unpleasant recognition before she could stop it.
Her fingers tightened around the handle of her reticule. Of all the people she could have encountered in London, it had to be him.
Gregory Bexley stood near the entrance with one hand resting casually against the head of his walking cane, dressed in a dark morning coat that looked considerably more expensive than his manners deserved. He possessed the same sharp features as his father, though where Lord Percival's age had softened his appearance, Gregory's face carried a harsher quality.
He had changed little since she had last seen him. If anything, the years had only sharpened the arrogance that had always seemed to sit so comfortably upon his features.
