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before he felt as if he were suffocating.
    â€œGood God, Jack Kent, is that really you?”
    A barrel-shaped man with a cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other reeled out of a leather chair and lumbered toward him, obliviously dropping a gray chunk of ash onto the carpet as he went. A thick swath of coarse white hair covered his head, and he sported a massive mustache that looked like two curling rodent tails pinned beneath his spider-veined nose.
    â€œGood afternoon, Lord Sullivan,” said Jack. The man was a friend of Haydon’s and amiable enough, when taken in small doses. “How are you?”
    â€œStill alive and still bloody thirsty.” He took a swig from his crystal glass, then smacked his liver-colored lips with satisfaction. “Damn doctor has told me I have to cut back. The man’s a perfect half-wit, I say. Drinking and smoking are the only things keeping me here. If he had any bloody sense, he’d tell me to drink more. Here, everyone, look who has decided to grace us with his presence,” he blared drunkenly, seizing the attention of every man in the room. “Redmond’s ward—the one who likes ships. Just come back from India, if I’m not mistaken.”
    It was a fascinating aspect of Jack’s notoriety that despite the fact that he so rarely frequented the club, once he was there most of the members took great pains to speak to him and feign their welcome. The bitter furor that had erupted when Haydon first fought to have his wards made members of the club had been a dark chapter in the Marbury Club’s otherwise deadly staid two-hundred-year history. On the exceptional occasion of Jack’s attendance, there was a perverse curiosity to find out just what Lord Redmond’s wild and reckless eldest ward had been up to. The news of the sabotage and financial difficulties his shipping business was encountering would have provided much fodder for the Marbury Club’s otherwise stultifyingly vapid afternoon discussions.
    â€œGood to see you, Kent.” A dried-up little husk of a man with a fringe of straw-colored hair skirting his otherwise shiny pink head approached and extended a scaly hand. “How was India? Damned hot, I would imagine.” He looked about the room and guffawed.
    â€œIt was, Lord Chesley.” Jack accepted the glass of brandy a footman offered him on a silver tray and took a deep swallow. He would need ample fortification if he was to play this game of strained civility for long. “But I enjoy the heat.”
    â€œOf course you do.” Lord Farnham, the Earl of Palgrave, studied him with supercilious amusement as he fingered the ends of his short, dark beard into a perfect point. “And I’d wager you enjoyed the special charms of the native women there as well, did you not?”
    The entire room broke into a chorus of raucous male laughter, much of it half drunk, although it was barely midday.
    â€œI enjoy the charms of women wherever they are offered—as I’m sure every man in this room does, including you, Lord Chesley.” Jack raised his glass at the hunched little bird of a man and winked, causing the assemblage to roar with laughter once again.
    â€œSo, Kent, what brings you to London?” asked Lord Farnham. “I hear you’ve been having some trouble with ruffians vandalizing your ships.” His expression was mild. “That’s all been straightened out, I hope?”
    â€œThe matter is under investigation,” Jack replied impassively. “Fortunately, the damage has been minimal and has not affected my shipping schedules.”
    It was vital to maintain the impression that his business was thoroughly sound. Any rumors suggesting otherwise would make his investors and clients uneasy, which could result in loans being called and contracts being canceled, either of which would be disastrous for him.
    â€œReally? I had heard otherwise.” Lord Spalding