“Very well then.” The Honorable Nigel Cavendish, the only son of Viscount Cavendish, who
seemed in excellent health and was expected to live for many, many years, raised his glass a little
higher. “Here’s to love.”
“To love,” Oliver Leighton, the Earl of Norcroft , seconded.
The toast echoed around the circle of four men who had gathered at their favorite club to privately
mark the wedding of their friend Jonathon Effington , the Marquess of Helmsley , and Oliver’s
cousin, Fiona, a scant few hours ago. In spite of the fact that each and every man raised his glass to
love, there was a distinct variance in degrees of enthusiasm. It wasn’t that any of them was
particularly opposed to the emotion, indeed, Oliver would have wagered every man here was at
heart a romantic, with the possible exception of Daniel Sinclair. The American was new to their
number and was an interesting addition to their group. He was, as well, their mutual hope for turning
a tidy profit in a railroad development venture in America .
