James’s Street below. Fashionable gentlemen in pursuit of coats and hats and snuff boxes and cravats, sometimes a military man proudly displaying a bright red uniform. Troy never wore his uniform these days, even though Alex had tried to convince him that the ladies would be mad for it. Alex… Troy clenched his jaw and thumped his fist against the white window frame. Where was that young fool? “My lord?” Miraculously, as if out of thin air, the Incomparable George Raggett, the Master of the House, appeared at his side. “Shall I have some refreshments sent up? Scotch? Bourbon?” When Troy had been first elected to White’s, barely twenty, it had still been the efficient Martindale who would solicitously inquire after one’s wishes. At the time, the elegance of the club had impressed Troy, young fop that he had been. He remembered how he had stroked his hand over the soft leather of the deep, comfortable chairs, how he had stared when Brummell held court in the morning room below.
