A thick, coal-laden fog blanketed the cobblestone streets of Whitechapel. Laughter and raucous merriment poured out of the many pubs lining the narrow lanes. A noxious odor of gas, piss, and stagnant water filled the air. Lord Gideon Broyles, Viscount Cravenbrook, no longer paid attention to the sights and sounds he encountered in his numerous nocturnal journeys. The decadent and depraved adventures he pursued most nights earned him the name “Lord Craven” for a good reason. Moving aside the red velvet curtain on his carriage window, Gideon glanced down the alley where he observed a couple of men copulating with shilling whores against the brick walls. Yawning, he sat back in his plush coach, and thought of his destination for tonight. The club, The Riding Crop, was private and recently opened. At age twenty-eight and sexually active for twelve years, there wasn’t much Gideon hadn’t experienced. Since the time of the innocent tumble with an under-house parlor maid at age sixteen, his sexual escapades grew in intensity as the years passed.
