The ground floor parlor was pleasantly empty. Lord Alvanley sat at the bow window, where Brummell had liked to sit. He looked up from a newspaper. “Afternoon, St. Just.”
“Alvanley.” Adam strolled across to the bow window. “What’s new?”
His lordship folded the newspaper and put it aside. “Have you heard about the Wootton chit?”
Adam shook his head. He sat and reached for the newspaper. “A bottle of claret,” he said to the waiter.
“Madness in the family,” Alvanley declared, stretching out his legs.
Adam glanced at him. “What? The Wootton heiress?”
His lordship nodded. “It’s the latest on-dit.”
Adam grunted, and removed Miss Wootton from his list of possible brides.
Another newcomer entered the room, his step jaunty. “Afternoon, Alvanley,” he said cheerfully. “St. Just.”
Adam looked
