He knew them. Knew what they were thinking of him, when they gave him those sideways glances that one might give a clump of horse figs in the street so as to avoid leaving a boot print upon it.

Yes, he knew them. And he hated them, for their thoughts and their looks.

Lately he’d realized he was a foreigner here. He was no longer a true citizen of England for he had the roughness of New York about him, he carried it wrapped around himself like a cloak of brine-soaked ropes, and no matter how he dressed or tried to cover it over, its essence—its phantom—was there to betray him. That last dinner party he’d been talked into attending turned into a nightmare of his ill-taken witticisms and botched choices of what fork to use for which dish of clotted grease. He feared he had lost his sophistication during his years across the Atlantic, and now what seemed to pass as sophistication here were caustic remarks aimed at belittling the colonists, delivered as if one were speaking through a clench of lockjaw. If it were up to him he would book passage on the next ship leaving for the colonies, but … he had this prominent position, his wife the Princess had clutched upon this place like a mollusk on a sea-slimed rock, her oppressive—at least to him—mother and father had paid for their very fine living quarters, had bought their home furnishings and purchased for them two matched chestnut horses and a carriage, therefore …

Meet Gardner Lillehorne, assistant to the High Constable of London, oh-so-happy denizen of this great metropolis and ex-resident of the rustic town of New York, likely never to return there.

But the truth was … he felt he’d really been someone of importance there, with a job to do, and had earned the respect of all. Well … almost all. Here the title was grand, but he was naught but a bootscrape to the men above him. And above him were so many.

“Damn, what a mob!” he said to no one in particular, as he and Nack advanced against a stiffening and more frigid wind. The snowflakes were beginning to fly into their faces. In the sky the low gray clouds were interlaced with the black streamers of coal smoke rising from the industrial chimneys that stood tall over even the best parts of the city, as if reminding the population that one tumble and spate of bad luck could turn the finest of fashionables into a grime-streaked furnace stoker chained to the never-ending job of feeding power into London’s massive maw.

Within a few minutes the blue-lettered sign of Chomley’s Coffee Parlor came into view, and with great relief to remove himself from the swift currents of humanity Lillehorne entered the place with Nack at his heels. A coal-burning stove and a brick fireplace provided heat, and hanging lanterns cut the gloom. Though there were already too many patrons in the parlor for Lillehorne’s complete satisfaction, he guided himself and his compatriot to a vacant table at the rear and, after doffing his overcoat, he settled his rump into a high-backed chair beneath a dusty oil portrait of a stern bewigged gent who seemed to be scowling at the new generation of Londoners from his current position in Eternity.