Lenox was a tall, slender, straight-backed young bachelor of twenty-six, bearing a gentlemanly appearance, and with, whatever Lady Jane said, a courteous manner. Though both considered themselves tenured veterans of London now, anyone observing them would have seen two very young people, as young and resilient as the summer day. It had been a long drought since his last case-more than a month. As they crossed Binney Street, Lenox’s eyes stayed for an extra moment on a man painting an iron fence with a fresh coat of black paint, whistling happily to himself. “The worst-mannered wretch I ever met was a duke,” Lady Jane said. “The joke’s on you, because it’s with a duke.” “I hope it’s with someone you’ve hired to teach you better manners.” “Why are you checking your watch every ten seconds?” she asked after they had gone about halfway. They left, eventually turning up Brook Street and walking past the little string of streets that ran parallel to their own, talking. At five past, she came out, smiling and apologizing. The two friends were next-door neighbors on tiny Hampden Lane, in the heart of London, and he was waiting on her steps at ten o’clock precisely. On this occasion it was a warm, windy day in early June of 1853, quiet, the gently sunny hour of late morning before the clerks would fill the streets on their way to take lunch. Once a month or so, just to keep his hand in the game, Charles Lenox liked to go shopping with his friend Lady Jane Grey.
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