―It‘s no good, Thomas,‖ came a man‘s voice, ―I‘ve already summoned a carriage. You‘d better get up.‖ Thomas opened one eye and saw his friend, Andrew Nash, sitting near the bed, dressed in his finest riding clothes and looking far too cheerful. ―I feel wretched.‖ ―No doubt,‖ Andrew replied unsympathetically. ―You finished off that entire bottle of Scotch last night.‖ Both men were in their mid twenties, recently having graduated from Oxford. It was here, at the club, that they‘d first made each other‘s acquaintance three years earlier. Nash wasn‘t nobility, but he‘d managed to turn his late father‘s import business into an exceedingly profitable enterprise, and Thomas was shamed to see that Andrew‘s traveling clothes were of a far finer make than he himself could afford. He sat up and tentatively placed his feet over the edge of the bed. ―What kind of friend lets me drink a fifth of Scotch by myself?‖ he asked irritably, running his hand through his thick chestnut hair, as if that might somehow soothe the dull ache that gripped his head.
