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fronting onto Park Street, and their gardens running down to that high wall which hid the view, not only of Park Lane, but of Hyde Park itself.
    But the house Fitz had picked out for his friend belonged to a Mr. Warwick Wyman, an architect, who had received permission from the government’s Department of Woods and Forests to take down the section of wall at the end of his garden. He had then set about turning the back of the house into the front, building pleasant bay windows and delicate wrought-iron balconies and verandahs and a graceful colonnaded entrance.
    Mr. Wyman turned out to be there in person to show them around.
    Thanks to his improvements, the house proved to be one of the most well-lit and airy in London. Red Turkey carpet was fitted throughout with fleecy hearthrugs—a new invention—before each marble fireplace. Also new were the fire-guards, huge affairs of brass netting supported by brass pillars. Mr. Wyman told them he delighted in new-inventions and showed them his collection. There was a razor for shaving yourself while galloping on horseback, a pocket toasting-fork, a machine for slicing cucumbers, a Patent Compound Concave Corkscrew, stamped Ne
plus ultra
by the inventor to warn all future would-be corkscrew makers that the art of making corkscrews could be carried no further, and Mr. Wyman’s pride and joy—a portable fender complete with portable pocket-sized fire-irons.
    The Earl of Fleetwood politely complimented Mr. Wyman on this last treasure, carefully hiding his sudden doubt about the sanity of this architect. For who but a madman would travel with his own fender and fire-irons? And what did Mr. Wyman do in inn or country house with the existing fender and fire-irons in his room? Throw them out of the window? Or did he plan to visit some aboriginal country where the inhabitants did not have fenders?
    But the character of Mr. Wyman, as they moved from room to room, emerged as that of a pleasant and clever eccentric, rather than that of a madman.
    The rooms were all well-appointed. In the main drawing room, the curtains were of rich printed cotton, lined with a plain colour and fringed with silk. Above the curtains was a sconce divided into six prints in gilt frames. Two of these were of Noel’s view of Cádiz and Lisbon and the others were from English history and represented the battles of the Boyne and of La Hogue, the death of General Wolfe at Quebec, and William Penn treatying with the Indians for his province of Pennsylvania.
    The rent for the Season was seven hundred and fifty pounds. The earl thought ruefully of that house in Clarges Street, which he could have had for a mere eighty, but he had fallen in love with the Park Lane mansion and it was at least four times the size of that other house. After only a little token haggling, he agreed to meet Mr. Wyman’s price.
    “I could but wish,” said the earl, “that among your inventions were a set of mechanical servants. I have no love of the breed.”
    “Alas,” said Mr. Wyman, “I am afraid your lordship must rely on the human article. I can recommend a good agency.”
    “No,” said the earl. “I shall fetch my own servants from the country. I have recently engaged new staff who can be guaranteed not to tattle or gossip.”
    After sharing a bottle of port with Mr. Wyman, the earl and Fitz set out to walk across Hyde Park and amble round the Serpentine.
    “I shall be glad to move out of that hotel,” sighed the earl. “It is excessively expensive and excessively dirty. I hope this Season proves to be less boring than the last. What an empty, shallow life we lead in Town. Empty conversations spiced with even emptier flirtations. Still, I have already had one adventure. Did I tell you I went to see that damned and accursed house in Clarges Street?”
    “No. Did the ghosts come out of the wainscoting and jangle their chains at you?”
    “I went twice, and no, it was not haunted. The second time I went—for I had refused it