On a rainy morning in 1817, I visited Bond Street to purchase a bauble for my lady.

I gazed at trays of glittering jewels in the shop I entered and dreamed of adorning Lady Breckenridge with the best of them. I knew, however, that my captain's half-pay would allow me only the simplest of trinkets. The proprietor knew it too and abandoned me for the more prosperous-looking patrons who walked in behind me.

"Is it Captain Lacey?" a male voice rang out. "Jove, it is, as I live and breathe."

I turned to see a man of thirty-odd, his light brown hair damp with rain, favoring me with a familiar and hearty grin. In spite of the weather, his clothing was impeccable, from his pantaloons and polished Hessians to a fashionably tied cravat. An equally well-dressed older gentleman I didn't know stood behind him with a matron and a young woman with red-gold hair.

"Summerville," I said in surprise and pleasure.

I hadn't seen George Summerville since the Peninsular War. Summerville had been in a heavy cavalry regiment, a big man full of bonhomie, who'd made friends wherever he'd gone. I remembered long nights with him that involved much-flowing port but never how those nights had ended. Memories of the terrible headaches in the mornings, on the other hand, lingered. Summerville had been injured at Salamanca, and I'd lost track of him after that.

I advanced and held out my hand, shaking his warmly. "How are you, Lieutenant?"

"Lieutenant no longer. Sold my commission. You?"

"Half-pay." I'd gotten into the Army a roundabout way-volunteered, then obtained the rank of cornet with the help of my mentor. That's how poor gentlemen get to be officers. At Talavera, I'd been promoted from lieutenant to captain. Three years ago, I'd left the Peninsula in a devil's bargain with my aforementioned mentor, and now eked out a living in London.