. . don’t girls like a rake better than a milksop? Thackeray Lord Charles Marsham had an elegant mansion in Green Street. His staff were well-trained and content with their jobs, as Lord Charles preferred to keep his roistering away from home. Three weeks had passed since he had rescued that cat and somehow it was still with him – and more demanding than a wife, he often thought sourly. It followed him everywhere like a shadow and refused to be confined to the kitchens. His friend Jack Perkins, a former colonel, was sprawled in Lord Charles’s library, glaring awfully at the cat, which had attempted to scratch him. Jack had tried to retaliate by kicking it and had been prevented from doing so by Lord Charles. ‘It is only a cat, demme,’ drawled Lord Charles weakly. ‘I have the devil of a headache and I cannot bear you shouting and stomping like an avenging fury. What are we doing today?’ Jack was usually the instigator of every wild episode in Lord Charles’s life, Lord Charles being too indolent to think up any of his own.
