On an evening in late March 1817, I climbed to the third floor of Lucius Grenville's Grosvenor Street house in search of peace, and found a lady, weeping, instead.

In the rooms below me, Grenville's latest revelry tinkled and grated, Grenville celebrating recovery from a near-fatal injury. The entire haut ton had turned up tonight, Lucius Grenville being the darling of society, the dandy all other dandies aspired to be. The famous Brummell had fled to the Continent, Alvanley grew stout, but Grenville reigned supreme. He was an epicure who knew how to avoid excess, a sensualist who could resist the temptations of sloth and lechery.

I'd enjoyed speaking to a few of my friends below, but the transparent way Grenville's sycophants tried to exploit my acquaintance with him soon grated on my patience. I decided to sit in Grenville's private room and read until the festivities died down.

I used my walking stick and the banister, hand-carved by an Italian cabinetmaker, to leverage myself up the stairs. My leg injury, given to me by French soldiers during the Peninsular War, did not affect me so much tonight as did the near gallon of port I had drunk. I could never afford what Grenville had in his cellars, so when he invited me to partake, I took enough to last.

Therefore, I was well past foxed when I at last emerged onto the third floor and sought the peace of Grenville's sitting room.

I found the lady in it, weeping.

She sat squarely under the scarlet tent that hung in the corner of the room, a souvenir from Grenville's travels in the east. The entire room was a monument to his journeys-ivory animals from the Indies reposed next to golden masks from Egypt, rocks bearing the imprint of ancient American animals held pride of place near hieroglyphic tablets from Persia.