Grayson ran his hand through his hair and tried to remember. He was certain he’d had it two nights ago at White’s. Had he left it there? Timmins, his valet, swore he’d not seen it since then. That night he had been slightly worse for drink. Not unusual of late. He drank to forget the screams coming from his friend Christian Trent as he lay burning on the ground, the flames consuming half his body. Grayson heard them every night in his dreams. The pain his friend must have been in … “I’ll just have to wear the black one. However, Timmins, I do want it found. Do I make myself clear? It’s my favorite coat,” he added, pulling on his gloves. He was off to the House of Lords. He was fulfilling his promise to Robert Flagstaff, his best friend, whom he had held dying in his arms on the battlefield. Robert wanted to ensure that his men, those who survived the war damaged but alive, would be financially secure when the war ended. So far it was a disgrace how the government was treating pensioned-out soldiers—men missing limbs or suffering from other injuries that made it impossible to work.
