London, 1795

            “RATS! What do you mean I have rats?” Mr. Ewan Griffin shoved his chair back as he jumped to his feet and bellowed at Cooper, his factotum.

            The ever-efficient, spectacled factotum stood in the open doorway to Griffin’s palatial office, looking more like a cowering stick insect than his usual confident, unruffled self.

            “Here? Inside Blacklegs! Don’t be absurd, man.”

            “I-I-I’m s-sorry to interrupt your card game, gentlemen,” Cooper said. “But I thought Mr. Griffin would want to be informed immediately.”

            “Easy, Ewan.” Lord Giles West leaned back in his chair. “Don’t kill the messenger.”

            “Damn it, I finally have a decent hand, too.” Clark Harcourt, the third man seated at Ewan’s table, tossed his cards down.

            “Bah.” Ewan jabbed his hand at his office door. “What’s all that racket?”

            The factotum grimaced, cleared his throat, and pulled at his neck cloth. “Your patrons departing into the night, sir.”

            “Christ—escaping, more like.” Ewan ran his hands through his hair. “Suppose we should go investigate.” He went to his desk, opened a top drawer, and pulled out a pistol. He checked to see that it was primed.

            Giles pointed at the gun. “What do you plan to do with that?”

            “You don’t expect me to go out there unarmed, do you?” Ewan said.

            “You’d do better with a broom,” Giles said. “Rats are too fast. Waste of good shot.”

            All three men gawked at Giles West.

            “And how the hell would the Earl of Margrave know such a thing?” Ewan asked. “Chase many rats lately, Giles?”

            Giles chuckled. “Not me. But I do happen to be acquainted with the best rat-catcher in all London.”

            “You’re bamming us?” Clark said.

            Giles stood. “You place the broom like so.” He pantomimed holding a broom to the floor. “Then you make a large sweeping arc, driving the broom, and the beast, away from you.”

            “You’re serious.” Clark scratched his head. “Egad, Ewan, what’ll your father say?”

            Ewan braced his hands on his desk, narrowed his eyes, and leaned forward, giving Clark his death stare. “You plan on acquainting him with these facts, do you?”

            “Of course not,” Clark said in an offended tone.

            “Besides, it’s none of his concern. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man. Not a boy who must run to papa to fix his problems. And this is my business, whether he likes it or not.” Ewan knew there was no way to keep this juicy tidbit from reaching his father’s ear. He’d just have to batten down the hatches and wait out the angry storm his father was sure to unleash on him over this mess. The son of a peer owning a gaming hell was bad enough, but one infested with rats—well now, that was prime fodder for the scandal rags and the wagging tongues. The only thing his father hated more than having no control of him, was scandal.

            “If you’d like, I can write a note summoning Mac here for a consultation.”

            “A consultation? By all means. I cannot wait to meet the man who dares train an earl to use a broom.” Ewan held out his hand, palm up, inviting Giles to sit down at his desk and compose his note.”

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Who called this damn meeting at such an ungodly hour?” Ewan strode into his office, tossing his hat and gloves at the footman who trailed him.

            Cooper looked down at his book. “Lord West made the arrangements, Mr. Griffin.”

            “Well, then, where the hell is he?” Ewan said as his footman helped him off with his topcoat.

            “Here.” Giles West strolled in.

            “Did you bring your rat-catcher with you?” Ewan threw himself into his desk chair and rubbed his tired eyes. “I need coffee.”

            “Yes, sir. I shall see to it right away.” Cooper hurried from the room, followed by the footman.

            “Well?” Ewan said.

            “Mac’s to meet us here by eleven.”

            “Harrumph.” Ewan scratched his unshaven jaw. He’d spent the night with a lovely new bird of paradise, but had lingered too long in her bed this morning. So here he was, unshaven, dressed in last night’s rumpled clothes, hungry for food, and grumpy as hell.

            Among his friends, enemies, and the world at large, Ewan’s reputation for having little to do with nice girls was well known. Even his mother had ceased introducing him to eligible prospects from his own class. And the other kind—the opera dancers and high-flyers he preferred—well, if they got clingy or demanding, they were soon history. He caught a look at his reflection in the glass door of a cabinet beside his desk and huffed in annoyance.

            Giles, on the other hand, looked fresh as a daisy. Ewan supposed that’s what came of being happily married. A state he planned not to venture into for quite some time. He’d no illusions. Most of the members of his class, besides his parents, and Giles and Eleanor West, were in hapless marriages of convenience. He assumed he’d marry one day, but he doubted it would be a union filled with pleasure and joy.

            Giles sank into the chair on the opposite side of Ewan’s desk. “You look like hell.”

            “Thank you for those kind and solicitous words.” Ewan curled his lip. “I was just thinking for such an ancient thing you’re looking remarkably well.”

            Giles threw back his head and let loose a bark of unbridled laughter.

            Ewan grinned.

            “It’s the company I keep,” Giles said.

            Ewan knew his friend was speaking of his wife, Eleanor. “Unquestionably.”

            Cooper opened the door and a footman carrying a tray sporting a large coffee pot and a plate full of scones sailed in and deposited it on Ewan’s desk.  The rich, pungent smell of coffee and the sight of the scones lifted Ewan’s mood a notch.

            “Leave us.” Ewan waved the footman off. He reached for the coffee pot, making ready to serve Giles and himself. “And, Cooper?”

            “Yes, sir?”

            “We are expecting—” Ewan was interrupted by the sound of barking.

            Giles stood and faced the open door. “Ahh, Mac has arrived.”

            “First rats, now dogs invade my sanctum,” Ewan said.

            A small, scruffy, barking canine burst into the room.

            As the footman moved to the door, the dog shot under his feet. The man fell into Cooper.

            “What the devil?” Ewan stood.

            A neatly dressed boy of about eleven or twelve darted into view. “Bert, behave.” The scruffy dog heeded the boy’s command, silenced immediately, and came to sit beside him.

            “Ah, Mac,” Giles said. “There you are.”

            “Well, it’s about damn time. What do you mean disrupting. . .?” The remainder of his set-down died on Ewan’s lips. There in the doorway stood the most extraordinary creature he’d ever seen.