Lord John and the Private Matter

He had crossed the room with no notion what he might say or do - he had no knowledge of the language of condolence, no skill at social small talk; his metier was business and politics. And yet, when his hostess had introduced them and left, he found himself still holding the hand he had kissed, looking into soft brown eyes that drowned his soul. And without further thought or hesitation had said, 'God help me, I am in love with you.

In defense of King, country, and family, he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed his virtue to Nessie, had that been required. If it was a question of Olivia marrying a man with syphilis and half the British army being exterminated in battle, versus himself experiencing a "personal interview" with Richard Caswell, though, he rather thought Olivia and the King had best look to their own devices.

What sort of mother talks about whores on her deathbed? Your mother wouldn’t do that, would she?" "I have no idea,” Grey said, “The situation has fortunately not arisen.

Got to go to dinner at my brother’s house tomorrow - my sister-in-law is having Lord Worplesdon.” (Quarry) “Steamed, boiled, or baked en croûte?” (John)

Grey sat in his bedchamber, unshaven and attired in his nightshirt, banyan, and slippers, drinking tea and debating with himself whether the authoritative benefits conferred by wearing his uniform outweighed the possible consequences - both sartorial and social - of wearing it into the slumps of London to inspect a three-day-old corpse.

Oh God. It isn’t Wednesday, is it, Hardy?” he pleaded, ascending the steps toward the footman, who smiled at sight of him, bowing as he opened the door. "Yes, my lord. Has been all day, I’m afraid