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London and North Western Railway departed. Gasping for air, he saw the caboose nearing the end of the platform and, racing headlong after it, managed to leap aboard. A fellow passenger out enjoying his cigar had kindly held open the back gate.
    “Many thanks,” Jamie gasped, collapsing against the caboose wall.
    “Dinna think ye were up to that leap,” the elderly Scotsman said blandly. “A right daredevil ye are.”
    “My gillie’s—coming down . . . from the hills—to . . . meet me.”
    “At Inverness?” Inverness was the gateway to the hills. Dragging air into his lungs, Jamie nodded.
    “Ye dinna live up that way, do ye?” He tapped his ear. “A bit o’ accent I ken.”
    “I visit in the summer.” Jamie’s breathing was partially restored. “May I buy you a drink?”
    The elderly man smiled. “Ye’re a closemouthed scamp. Ye can share a drink with me”—he held up his cigar—“once I’ve smoked me fill.”
    “My pleasure, sir. I’ll see you inside.” With a bow, Jamie opened the caboose door and made for the club car. The moment he entered the crowded lounge, he was hailed. “Blackwood, over here!” Lord Rothsay waved from the bar.
    Threading his way through the throng to the bar, Jamie smiled and took the whiskey Rothsay held out to him.
    “You smell of cunt,” the earl said with a smirk. “And you’re still in last night’s evening rig. She must have been good.”
    “Afternoon, Dougal. Nice day. Traveling home to the wife and family?” The men knew each other from the summer war games they’d both competed in as youths. Rothsay was a Sandhurst fellow.
    The earl grunted. “Have to occasionally.” He reached out and plucked a golden hair from Jamie’s shoulder. “Anyone I know?”
    “I’m sure you do.” Jamie raised his glass. “Cheers.” He drained the liquor, set the glass down, and signaled for another.
    “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
    “No.”
    “Bastard.”
    “That’s my job.” Jamie turned to smile at the bartender, who held out another glass of whiskey.
    “Speaking of bastards, how is that aging libertine Ernst doing?”
    “Same as ever. Cheers.” Jamie tossed off the whiskey.
    “I heard rumors he’s making himself amenable to Banffy in Hungary and the powers that be in Germany.”
    Jamie nodded at the bartender and pointed to his empty glass before answering. “Ernst thinks he’s another Bismarck,” he said. “I keep reminding him that even Bismarck eventually overplayed his hand. Leave the bottle.” He handed the young barman a large banknote and picked up his refilled glass.
    Rothsay’s brows rose. “Keep that up and you’ll have to be carried off at Inverness.”
    Jamie grinned. “Care to wager?”
    “Five hundred says you won’t last.”
    “You’re on.”
    “With most men I’d say they were drinking away some female entanglement, but with you I know better. Did you discover your conscience?” the earl asked with a chuckle.
    “Not unless you discovered yours.” Rothsay preferred opera tarts, cancan girls, and his pretty maidservants more than his wife, not exactly uncommon in the fashionable world. Dougal and his wife had agreed to disagree in the civilized way of the upper classes and lived on friendly terms. Gossip had it Lady Rothsay found solace with a parade of young, handsome grooms, which might account for the increasing size of Rothsay’s family.
    “Don’t have a conscience,” Dougal complacently replied. “Take after my father, who couldn’t remember our names or that of my mother come to think of it. We Rothsay men are a ramshackle lot all bound for hell, but in the meantime,” he said in the frank, easy way he had, “I’m indulging in my pleasures—the lovely ladies foremost—and the devil be damned.”
    Jamie raised his glass. “A fair exchange. I’ll drink to that.”
    “Amen and God bless all the willing jezebels,” Dougal returned with a lecherous wink.
    In the end, Rothsay lost his five