He stops at the desk, hearing the loud revelry coming from the other rooms. The gentleman raises his eyebrow at Beau's name, but bows and turns toward one of the men behind him. "Tell Lord Byron that Mister George Brummell wishes to speak with him."

"I could easily tell him myself," Beau reminds him.

"True, Mr. Brummell, but if I were to allow you to do that, I would not allow Lord Byron the opportunity to refuse to see you."

"He will not refuse."

"For your sake, Mr. Brummell, I hope you're right." He turns back to the papers in front of him, carefully dipping his pen in the ink. Beau follows his hand, noting the list of names as he writes, visitors seen and refused by Byron. More refused than not, and the small sense of surety he clings to wavers.

The other man comes back, sliding a note onto the desk. The concierge opens it, eyebrow raising yet again. "It seems that it is your lucky day, Mister Brummell. Lord Byron will receive you in his rooms." He nods toward the man who had taken the note. "Charles will show you the way. And Mister Brummell?"

"Yes?" Beau adopts his haughtiest air, the assurance of being seen giving boon to his hopes.

"We are a place of reputation. Do try to keep that in mind."

Charles knocks at Byron's door and opens it as Byron snaps a reply. He bows to Beau and retreats, leaving Beau to make his own way through the door and down the hall. Byron is sprawled in a chair in the sitting room, his position calculated carefully to mask his deformity. Beau knows better than to look, than to notice.

"George."

Byron's mouth quirks in a smile. "George."

"Kind of you to see me."

"Is it? Odd that, as I am never kind." Byron picks up his drink and sips at it, his eyes like a reptile's, carefully watching every move Beau makes. "Perhaps I just wished to see you for my own prurient pleasure."

"Is that the case?" Beau moves over and takes a seat opposite him without being asked, watching the fire flare in Byron's eyes. "I have a keen appreciation for your prurient pleasures."

"Do you? I would think you should curb yourself of that, given your benefactor's disapproval of me in general and of my presence in your life in particular."

"Yes, well. He is no longer my benefactor, I'm afraid."

Byron raises and eyebrow, his mouth curving into the knife-sharp smile. "Is that so. And do I claim the honor of severing that relationship, or did your own abilities render it obsolete?"

"A bit of both, I believe, though feel free to claim most of the credit if you like."

"I think you would like that, George." Byron leans forward, his smile growing even sharper, crueler. "If I took the blame or, as you say, credit, I would perhaps feel indebted to you? Feel the need to right the wrongs committed in your name? Pay you for your loss."

"You think I have come for money." Beau stands and moves over to the bar, pouring himself and Byron each a glass of whiskey. He brings the glass back to Byron, standing at his feet and gazing down at the wicked, knowing blue eyes. "Of course you do. For it is what I do, is it not?"

"You spend beyond your means. You live in a style in which you are accustomed and yet ill prepared to afford. I may be vain, George, but I am not in any way stupid." Byron sips his drink, his eyes holding Beau to the spot. "To think that you are here for any reason other than my purse would be the height of vanity, would it not?"

"If anyone has a right to be so vain…"

"And now the flattery." Byron narrows his eyes in amusement. "What a fool you must think me, George. As your beloved Prince Regent was so keen to point out, I am a deformed monstrosity, kept in society only by my wit and my fortune. Do not think me so susceptible to your simpering that mere kind words would roll me over and bare my tender underbelly to you."

"I do not believe you possess such a thing, George."

"Do you not?" Bryon leans forward and tilts his head to the side. "I think that is a lie, George. I think it's the one thing you think I do possess, along with, of course, a vast fortune that I am willing to lay at your disposal." He gets to his feet, moving over to the sideboard and refilling his glass. "Am I to be your new benefactor, George?"

"I would not ask that of you."

"You say over and again that you would not do these things, but I can find no other reason why you're here. It is far too early in the day for even your hedonistic pleasures to come to fore and wish to take me to bed. You bore of conversation far more quickly than I bore of the sound of my voice, so it comes to money. You want it. I have it."

"Very well, George." Beau walks over to Byron and leans against the bar, staring across the room for a moment before turning his head and looking at Byron. "What do I have to do to get it?"

"That is a question, is it not?" Byron drains his glass and sets it down, turning to look at Beau. "If I patronize you, you make a greater enemy yet of the Prince. As do I." Byron smiles, delight heating his gaze. "A win for me. How that resolves for you, is…slightly harder to say."

"I do not think my relationship with him can suffer more at this juncture." Beau manages a tight smile. "Which I am sure brings you no end of joy."

"You would not be wrong." Byron shifts, favoring his foot, his voice distant. "But it does bother you. You rather like the bastard."

"Ah, but not a bastard." Beau gives Byron a careful look before averting his gaze. "That's rather part of his charm."

"He has charm?"

Beau laughs. "George, I don't want your patronage. I don't want to drag your name through the mud when you take such great joy in doing it yourself. Just a loan."

"A secret pact then, while you denounce me in public so as to ingratiate yourself with our most noble Prince again?" Byron nods and sighs. "What kind of fool do you think it makes me, George, were I to say yes?"

"Not a fool, George." Beau clears his throat. "A friend."

"You see a difference in the two?" Byron pours more whiskey and raises his glass. "To fools and friendship."

"Then I have the money."