the army commission, that he would offer no more help. But rather than suffer any damage to the family name, he had already quietly settled an outstanding bill with Sinclair's tailor, then another with the Oriental proprietor of a dubious establishment in Bluegate-fields, where Sinclair had indulged in what the earl decried as �depraved behavior.� He could hardly refuse one more small request, certainly not from a son who might well be dispatched any day to fight the Russians in the Crimea.
�What would you say to dinner at my club?� Rutherford asked, raking in his winnings. �As my guests, of course.�
�That's the least you can do,� said Le Maitre, the other loser for the night. Because of his surname, he was known to his friends as Frenchie. �It's my money you'll be spending.�
�Now, now,� Rutherford said, stroking his extravagant side-whiskers, �let's not quarrel about it. What do you say, Sinclair?�
Sinclair wasn't eager to go to the Athenaeum just then, either. He had a small indebtedness to several of the members there, too. �I'd prefer the Turtle.�
�The Turtle it is, then,� Rutherford said, lumbering up from his chair�they had all done a fair amount of drinking while gambling��and perhaps a late visit to Mme. Eugenie?� He winked broadly at Sinclair and Le Maitre, while stuffing their pound notes into the pocket of his scarlet pelisse. He was in a good mood, and rightly so.
The three of them careened out into Oxford Street, sending several civilians scurrying out of their way, and splashed through the muddy London thoroughfares. At the corner of Harley Street, where a Miss Florence Nightingale had recently founded a hospital for indigent gentlewomen, Sinclair stopped to watch as a pretty young woman in a white bonnet leaned out to close the shutters on a third-story window. She saw him, too�his epaulettes and gold buttons gleamed in the dusk�and he smiled up at her. She ducked her head back inside, and the shutters closed, but not before he thought he'd seen her smile back.
�Come along!� Rutherford cried from down the street. �I'm famished.�
Sinclair caught up to his companions, and together they made their way to the beckoning globe of the Turtle tavern. A wooden placard, depicting a bright green turtle standing, improbably enough, on his hind legs, swung over the door, and Sinclair could hear the roar of many voices and the clattering of cups and cutlery from inside.
The door banged open as a fat man in a top hat spilled out, and Rutherford held it wide for Sinclair and Le Maitre to enter.
Long trestle tables ran the length of the low-ceilinged room, and a crackling fire burned in the vast stone hearth. Waiters in grease-spattered vests moved among the diners with platters of roasted chicken and slabs of bloody roast beef. Customers bangedempty beer mugs on the wooden tabletops to signal the need for replenishment. But Sinclair was neither hungry nor thirsty.
�Rutherford, give me back a fiver.�
�What for? I already said I'm buying.�
�I'm going out back.�
Nearly all the taverns had a fighting pit out back, but the Turtle's was especially well attended. With a bit of luck, Sinclair would be able to win back what he'd lost at cards.
�You're incorrigible,� Rutherford replied, while obligingly providing the five-pound note.
�I'll join you,� Le Maitre said, and Rutherford looked shocked.
�You're leaving me to dine alone?�
�Not for long,� Sinclair said, as he drew Le Maitre by the arm toward the rear door of the tavern. �We'll be back with our winnings.�
Behind the tavern there was a filthy alley, littered with bones and offal, and beyond that an old stable that had been converted to gaming use. It was insufferably warm and fetid inside; gas lamps burned from iron stanchions, illuminating the mob that crowded around the fighting pit�a square about fifteen feet on
�What would you say to dinner at my club?� Rutherford asked, raking in his winnings. �As my guests, of course.�
�That's the least you can do,� said Le Maitre, the other loser for the night. Because of his surname, he was known to his friends as Frenchie. �It's my money you'll be spending.�
�Now, now,� Rutherford said, stroking his extravagant side-whiskers, �let's not quarrel about it. What do you say, Sinclair?�
Sinclair wasn't eager to go to the Athenaeum just then, either. He had a small indebtedness to several of the members there, too. �I'd prefer the Turtle.�
�The Turtle it is, then,� Rutherford said, lumbering up from his chair�they had all done a fair amount of drinking while gambling��and perhaps a late visit to Mme. Eugenie?� He winked broadly at Sinclair and Le Maitre, while stuffing their pound notes into the pocket of his scarlet pelisse. He was in a good mood, and rightly so.
The three of them careened out into Oxford Street, sending several civilians scurrying out of their way, and splashed through the muddy London thoroughfares. At the corner of Harley Street, where a Miss Florence Nightingale had recently founded a hospital for indigent gentlewomen, Sinclair stopped to watch as a pretty young woman in a white bonnet leaned out to close the shutters on a third-story window. She saw him, too�his epaulettes and gold buttons gleamed in the dusk�and he smiled up at her. She ducked her head back inside, and the shutters closed, but not before he thought he'd seen her smile back.
�Come along!� Rutherford cried from down the street. �I'm famished.�
Sinclair caught up to his companions, and together they made their way to the beckoning globe of the Turtle tavern. A wooden placard, depicting a bright green turtle standing, improbably enough, on his hind legs, swung over the door, and Sinclair could hear the roar of many voices and the clattering of cups and cutlery from inside.
The door banged open as a fat man in a top hat spilled out, and Rutherford held it wide for Sinclair and Le Maitre to enter.
Long trestle tables ran the length of the low-ceilinged room, and a crackling fire burned in the vast stone hearth. Waiters in grease-spattered vests moved among the diners with platters of roasted chicken and slabs of bloody roast beef. Customers bangedempty beer mugs on the wooden tabletops to signal the need for replenishment. But Sinclair was neither hungry nor thirsty.
�Rutherford, give me back a fiver.�
�What for? I already said I'm buying.�
�I'm going out back.�
Nearly all the taverns had a fighting pit out back, but the Turtle's was especially well attended. With a bit of luck, Sinclair would be able to win back what he'd lost at cards.
�You're incorrigible,� Rutherford replied, while obligingly providing the five-pound note.
�I'll join you,� Le Maitre said, and Rutherford looked shocked.
�You're leaving me to dine alone?�
�Not for long,� Sinclair said, as he drew Le Maitre by the arm toward the rear door of the tavern. �We'll be back with our winnings.�
Behind the tavern there was a filthy alley, littered with bones and offal, and beyond that an old stable that had been converted to gaming use. It was insufferably warm and fetid inside; gas lamps burned from iron stanchions, illuminating the mob that crowded around the fighting pit�a square about fifteen feet on
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