where he had arranged his prized collection of leaded glass bottles and decanters
decorated his parlor. The rich burgundy and brown hues of the liquors inside the
bottles glowed dully in the fading light.
“About what?” came a voice from one of the armchairs beside the fireplace.
Colin Butler, Viscount Gelroy, swallowed from his glass, perhaps a little more deeply than was wise.
“A woman. What else?” Christopher replied, taking a more modest sip of his
own.
“Did she finally hear about your opera singer?” Colin asked, smirking.
James grinned.
“No, not that one.” Christopher grimaced. “You know,” he drawled, “you
two have gotten a great deal of conversation out of a single night that had more
to do with wine than passion. It was eight months ago, and anyway, she was really not worth the trouble.”
“Then who?” Colin asked.
Christopher rolled his eyes heavenward. “Mother wants to introduce me to
her young friend. I fear she's matchmaking.”
“Oh, Lord. Who?” James asked, raising his glass to his lips.
“Miss—or I should say Signorina—Katerina Valentino.”
Colin stared open-mouthed at Christopher's words, and James choked on his
brandy.
“What?” he demanded. “Is she hideous?”
“No,” Colin said cautiously, “she's… powerfully timid.”
“Boring, really,” Cary added. “I tried dancing with her once. Felt badly she
was standing alone. I don't think I saw her eyes once during the entire waltz, and
if she said a word, I didn't hear it.”
That didn't sound promising. Christopher flung himself backwards against
the upholstery and glanced out the window, taking in the details of his
surroundings, as was his habit.
In the brilliant crimson light of the sunset, the red bricks of the row house across the narrow cobblestone street seemed to glow, the light diffused by the particles of soot that always hung in the air. In a city whose population has been swelling and is predicted to reach nearly six million in the next decade or so—
with nearly all homes warmed by coal—soot and haze are inevitable. The added soot from steam-powered factories only made it worse.
A strangely-scented draft seeped around the window, reminding Christopher
that the vicarage also sat uncomfortably close to the Thames. “Well, I told Mother I would meet her, so I will. If she's nothing, at least I can say I tried.”
Christopher sighed, taking another sip of his drink.
Cary snorted.
“So, gentlemen, what do we have to look at today? Something…
intriguing?” he asked, changing the subject. “That 'newly discovered' work by Byron?”
“I read it. It was an utter fraud.” Cary dismissed it with a wave of his brandy
glass. “I suspect a barrister-in-training. It reads like legal documentation. No, no.
I have something we've never seen before.”
“What is it?” Christopher asked, leaning forward.
“The poet is called… Browning.”
