acquaintance, sir.” Lord Alvanley extended fat fingers for Harry to shake. He did so with the bow and murmured words that Julius had drummed into him. Lord Alvanley! The Prince Regent’s intimate! The man who bet three thousand pounds on which raindrop would reach the bottom of a window pane first!
Silas had had a lot to say about that, he recalled, as Alvanley gave him a pleasant nod and turned to jab an amused finger at Julius’s waistcoat. Bitter words on men who gambled gigantic sums while others starved. He’d called them bloated leeches, murderers by proxy, gargantuan bellies that consumed the country and shat it out. These were those men. This was a Tory club, where the men of conservative, traditional beliefs gathered, the people his parents and Silas had battled. They looked, to Harry’s wine-dazed eyes, like a set of jolly good fellows.
He was introduced to other men; it felt like dozens, although the room had seemed so empty. Ash’s great friend Freddy, who was very definitely not a Ricardian, shook his hand with enthusiasm. He sported a waistcoat of such a lurid hue that Harry couldn’t forbear a glance at Julius, and was almost undone by his expression. Lords and Sirs, old and young, most dressed elegantly, some with a lack of care that spoke of limitless confidence. There were even a few men sporting a rakish
déshabillé,
with carelessly tied cravats, the disarrangement of their hair as studied as Julius’s perfection.
“Byron should hang for his baleful influence on the young and stupid,” Julius said at his elbow. “Talking of whom, this is Joseph Higham.” He indicated a dramatically tousled man. “If you can tear yourself away from contemplation of your poetic soul for a moment—”
“Go to the devil, Norreys,” said Mr. Higham, without resentment.
“—I should like you to meet Harry Vane. Cirencester’s cousin.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Vane. New to Town?”
“Very new,” Harry agreed.
Don’t volunteer information,
Julius had told him. Or was that Silas?
“And where do you hail from?” Mr. Higham’s eyes were bright and curious. Not hostile, not suspicious, not gathering information to lay against him. Just asking.
“Oh, the country, but I’ve spent a good deal of time on the Continent. Paris and Munich.” Julius had given him that form of words with a promise that he would sound like a young man eager to talk about his Grand Tour. That, Julius had assured him, would terrify anyone into dropping the subject.
“Oh, yes, excellent. Enjoying White’s?” Higham asked, proving Julius’s point.
They talked for some minutes. Higham seemed to be a sensible man, no matter the absurdity of his dress. Others drifted up, joined in. Julius had disappeared, Harry realized after a while, and felt a twinge of panic. He looked round, and saw him, a few feet away. He seemed absorbed in conversation with a tall man but his eyes flicked to Harry after no more than a couple of seconds, then away again.
Julius was watching. And if he’d left Harry on his own, it was because he could. Because Harry was doing well. Fitting in. He felt a flush of pure pride.
He was discussing prizefights with Higham, Ash, and Freddy as if he’d spent his life rubbing shoulders with gentlemen when he saw Ash’s expressive features change to a look of almost comical dismay. Harry followed his gaze to a fleshy, red-faced, sandy-haired man looming in the doorway.
“Oh
no,
” said Ash and Freddy at once, as Ash went on, “I could have sworn he was at Warminster Hall for another fortnight. What’s he doing here?”
Warminster Hall was Ash’s family home. Harry glanced again at the new arrival and realized that he looked more than anything like a Hogarth caricature of his handsome friend.
“Is that your brother?”
“Maltravers,” Ash said miserably. “God help me. And I’ll wager anything he’s here to play, and Francis is at the tables. Oh, the devil. If one of you fellows
Silas had had a lot to say about that, he recalled, as Alvanley gave him a pleasant nod and turned to jab an amused finger at Julius’s waistcoat. Bitter words on men who gambled gigantic sums while others starved. He’d called them bloated leeches, murderers by proxy, gargantuan bellies that consumed the country and shat it out. These were those men. This was a Tory club, where the men of conservative, traditional beliefs gathered, the people his parents and Silas had battled. They looked, to Harry’s wine-dazed eyes, like a set of jolly good fellows.
He was introduced to other men; it felt like dozens, although the room had seemed so empty. Ash’s great friend Freddy, who was very definitely not a Ricardian, shook his hand with enthusiasm. He sported a waistcoat of such a lurid hue that Harry couldn’t forbear a glance at Julius, and was almost undone by his expression. Lords and Sirs, old and young, most dressed elegantly, some with a lack of care that spoke of limitless confidence. There were even a few men sporting a rakish
déshabillé,
with carelessly tied cravats, the disarrangement of their hair as studied as Julius’s perfection.
“Byron should hang for his baleful influence on the young and stupid,” Julius said at his elbow. “Talking of whom, this is Joseph Higham.” He indicated a dramatically tousled man. “If you can tear yourself away from contemplation of your poetic soul for a moment—”
“Go to the devil, Norreys,” said Mr. Higham, without resentment.
“—I should like you to meet Harry Vane. Cirencester’s cousin.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Vane. New to Town?”
“Very new,” Harry agreed.
Don’t volunteer information,
Julius had told him. Or was that Silas?
“And where do you hail from?” Mr. Higham’s eyes were bright and curious. Not hostile, not suspicious, not gathering information to lay against him. Just asking.
“Oh, the country, but I’ve spent a good deal of time on the Continent. Paris and Munich.” Julius had given him that form of words with a promise that he would sound like a young man eager to talk about his Grand Tour. That, Julius had assured him, would terrify anyone into dropping the subject.
“Oh, yes, excellent. Enjoying White’s?” Higham asked, proving Julius’s point.
They talked for some minutes. Higham seemed to be a sensible man, no matter the absurdity of his dress. Others drifted up, joined in. Julius had disappeared, Harry realized after a while, and felt a twinge of panic. He looked round, and saw him, a few feet away. He seemed absorbed in conversation with a tall man but his eyes flicked to Harry after no more than a couple of seconds, then away again.
Julius was watching. And if he’d left Harry on his own, it was because he could. Because Harry was doing well. Fitting in. He felt a flush of pure pride.
He was discussing prizefights with Higham, Ash, and Freddy as if he’d spent his life rubbing shoulders with gentlemen when he saw Ash’s expressive features change to a look of almost comical dismay. Harry followed his gaze to a fleshy, red-faced, sandy-haired man looming in the doorway.
“Oh
no,
” said Ash and Freddy at once, as Ash went on, “I could have sworn he was at Warminster Hall for another fortnight. What’s he doing here?”
Warminster Hall was Ash’s family home. Harry glanced again at the new arrival and realized that he looked more than anything like a Hogarth caricature of his handsome friend.
“Is that your brother?”
“Maltravers,” Ash said miserably. “God help me. And I’ll wager anything he’s here to play, and Francis is at the tables. Oh, the devil. If one of you fellows
Similar Books
![MINE! [New World Book 8]](https://fs.ageofbook.com/503196/thumbs/152x264/mine-new-world-book-8.jpg)
