Geraint had his chauffeur drop Francesca off at her place, declining her offer of a nightcap. His head was beginning to ache quite horribly, and for once it wasn’t due to either alcohol or smoke. He looked forward to simply being safe and secure in his own home, where he might take some drug to smooth the rough edges. The feeling of queasiness in his guts was still only a forewarning. It was not a vital sign; that was yet to come.

Once inside, he threw his cashmere overcoat, slick with the filthy rain of London’s night, over an armchair, then stooped to pick up the wax-sealed packet lying on the floor. The seal was the Earl of Manchester’s. Inside was a very glossy brochure-"Nobles in Business: Strategies for Success"-listing more corporate sponsors than London had honest policemen. Accompanying it was a personal invitation to the Earl of Llanfrechfa from Charles Nakatomi of Fuchi Industrial Electronics, no less. Dumping it unceremoniously on the hall table, Geraint rubbed his forehead and pinched the sinuses throbbing over the bridge of his nose to stave off the dull ache in his head. He undressed in the palatial bathroom, put on his silk dragon kimono, and made for the enkephalins in the top desk drawer. Just for good measure, he also took a hit of flocculated ibuprofen complex to turn every voluntary muscle in his body to jelly as he collapsed into bed. Better living through chemistry, boyo. We’ll worry about the weekend and the after-effects tomorrow. Cambridge, here I come.

5

Imran was late back from Shoreditch, and Rani was fretting over the chicken jalfrezi, splashing ghee all over the kitchen floor and the hem of her sari.