Prologue I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love. —Song of Solomon London—September 1881 Life was not a long, straight road, but a series of turns. Moments defined it. A hard choice, a chance meeting, a bit of bad luck, and everything changed; a new life began. Even now, at the ripe old age of twenty-one, Jack Talent had had almost as many lives as a cat. And today? Today, he felt a new change coming on. It rippled in his bones and set his teeth on edge as he faced the man before him. A man who lounged in an ornate mother-of-pearl armchair as if the whole world ought to court him. Jack suppressed a snort; over-puffed peacock was what he was. “And why should I help Ian Ranulf?” asked Lucien Stone. Jack maintained his own casual position, leaning back in his seat as if he were perfectly comfortable in this den of iniquity. This was his first assignment, acting not as Ian’s valet but as someone he trusted to do the delicate work of social maneuvering. The problem was, however, that Jack was distracted. By a scent.