Tristan hurried away from the club, his head ringing. The thought of not seeing Henri…Samuel, regularly made him feel queasy. Samuel. It suited him. His head spun as he walked the pavements, dodged a flower seller, made way for a large, drunken party squabbling over who should sit where in a ridiculously large coach. He held a handkerchief to his nose as he skirted past a sewer and then struck out towards Mayfair. When he reached his townhouse and the door opened he wondered anew whether the footman watched out for him, day and night, waiting specifically to open the door for him when he came home. As usual the huge mausoleum of a house was silent. His boot heels rang on the marble floor and the footman stood by his side ready to take his greatcoat, hat, and gloves. He straightened his coa
