Not only was the front door flapping in the constant wake of entering gentlemen, the rear of the building resembled an army camp readying for battle. Instead of firearms, liveried footmen clutched white squares of parchment while they queued up for news and then fled to waiting hackneys. Some were waylaid by mysterious persons who demanded the latest numbers before allowing the harried servants to scurry off to their masters. Many of those hands beckoning from inside dark carriages belonged to women. Leland Wescott, The Duke of Stromburg witnessed it all in disgust even as he rushed toward that flapping door, anxious to be in attendance when the auction was called off for lack of a prize. “Good Evening, your Grace,” said the surprised-looking doorman while taking his coat and gloves. “Didn’t think to see you here tonight. No one kicking you out of the house, I mean to say. No offense, sir.” “None taken, Gibson. I mean to stay all the same, but don’t worry about a room. I want a front row seat to the outrage.”
