(Lord Dracy, a scarred ex-naval officer, has just won a race between his mare Cartagena and the Earl of Hernescroft’s Fancy Free. As winner, he gets both horses, but he wants one of the earl’s stallions instead.) “Come in, Dracy, come in,” said the earl. “Claret, brandy, port?” “Claret, thank you,” Dracy said, noting that the footman had left and the earl was serving the wine. So, a private discussion. He’d studied all available information about the Earl of Hernescroft. Though portly and ruddy faced, he was in excellent health. His heir, Viscount Pranksworth, was thirty-two years old and already father of two sons, so the line seemed safe. If that branch failed, the earl had three other sons, one in the army, one in the navy, and one a Town idler. There were also two daughters, both well married. Or in one case, widowed, Dracy remembered, and stained by scandal. An image of a laughing face and fiery hair shot through his mind like a shooting star. He blanked it out. This was no time to be distracted by a highborn doxy.
