A swift glance about the clubrooms showed no sign of his quarry, and the waiters with whom he spoke said that they had not seen Lord Martley for several days. Perhaps the man was in his rooms, moping. Charles Henfield had some sympathy for moping. He ascertained his direction, and headed for Half Moon Street, hoping that he was not going to spend the rest of the day on a wild goose chase, or even worse, that Martley had made a bolt for the country. It was with huge relief that he heard the doorkeeper say that he was sure his lordship was at home, and would take him up to his chambers.

Lord Martley was not looking well. Consuming the amount of claret he had the previous evening, not that he could recall much after the third bottle, would do that to a man. He was dressed, in that he had a silk dressing gown about his person, but he looked rather sickly, and had not shaved. His valet was clearly a worried man, for his lordship was not one to imbibe more than might make a fellow merry and affectionate, and perhaps break into ditties, and he always shaved upon rising.

‘Martley,’ declared Lord Henfield briskly, thus making the viscount cringe and hold his head, ‘you have to sober up.’

‘I do? What the deuce for? M’life’s blighted, that’s what it is.’

‘No, it is not. Listen.’ Lord Henfield, seeing the degree of alcohol-induced fogginess that clung to Lord Martley, sent the valet for a pot of coffee. ‘Martley, all is not lost.’

‘It is, I tell you, all lost.’

‘No. You must go back to Lord Elstead and repeat your desire to pay Miss Felbridge your addresses. He will agree.’

‘He said no, but yesterday.’

‘And now he will say yes, my dear fellow. You love Miss Felbridge. She is worth the embarrassment of making your case once more.’

He now had Lord Martley’s undivided, if confused, attention.

‘But nothing has changed.’

‘Yes it has. Lady Elstead has been persuaded to rescind her prohibition on your betrothal to her daughter.’

‘How?’

‘That I am not at liberty to say.’ Lord Henfield thought that sounded a little pretentious, but it implied his own influence had been used, and that would filter back to Henry. ‘Just you make yourself presentable, and get yourself to South Audley Street. The longer you delay, the more Miss Felbridge will be lost in despair, and you do not want that.’

‘No, by Jove, I do not.’ Lord Martley sat up straight, winced and groaned. ‘Might take an hour, getting presentable. Head not good, in fact nothing very good.’

‘Well, you will feel a lot better when Miss Felbridge says “yes” and’ – Lord Henfield remembered Lady Vernham’s words – ‘throws her arms about your neck in a reprehensible manner and weeps upon your chest.’

This appeared to do Lord Martley as much good as at least one pot of coffee.