A good man ought to resemble a fine red wine; matured, with nuances in harmony, one who accompanies rather than overwhelms.

By what fate good Richard had been conveyed to London. Well now, was it truly fate or merely a simple turn of fortune, yet Mr. Richard Beaumont of Whitby now resided in the capital as a Baron.

Many a time, when the new Baron stands within his inherited estate, he cannot but shake his head and wonder whether he ought to laugh, or send a prayer of gratitude heavenward to dear Uncle Edward, God rest his soul.

Strictly speaking, Richard had scarcely known his mother’s brother. Ah, his mother, were she able to see him now, what might she say? In the past she had always feared he would come to nothing. That he lacked seriousness in life. And focus. But Richard possessed focus indeed, only upon the finer things in life. Women, for example.

He had never married. But when one is surrounded by beautiful blossoms, how is one to choose but a single one? Why should one, when one may tend an entire garden instead of a single cut rose destined to wither in a vase?

Yet the roses in London, Richard had quickly perceived, are of a most particular species. And this evening the next flower show is to take place.

This night hosts yet another ball of the present Season.

The Baron strolls through the opulently adorned ballroom, a faintly crooked smile upon his face, uncertain whether he is bored or curiously amused by yet another stiff affair which high society dares to call “diverting.” The only thing that appears “diverting” to Richard is to wink, in passing, at one or another debutante, an act which never fails to summon a blush upon her cheeks. And of course, the wine.

Thus the new addition to the aristocracy keeps an eye out this evening for one of the servants who circulate steadily amongst the company with their silver trays. As his gaze wanders across the assembled guests, it comes to rest upon the figure of a lady. Richard cannot put it into words, but something about her awakens a quiet interest within him. He possesses a certain instinct for ladies, and this one, so his seventh sense informs him, might prove something rather particular.

With light step, and one of his most charming smiles upon his lips, he approaches the lady who stands alone at the edge of the gathering. Before he even greets her, he snaps his fingers to summon an approaching servant. Without great ceremony, he removes the unknown lady’s glass of champagne from her hand and passes it to the servant, ordering at once two glasses of red wine. The servant nods formally and departs.

Meanwhile, Richard regards his counterpart briefly, yet with unmistakable interest in his dark eyes.

“Forgive me, my Lady, pray forgive that I was not sooner at hand to rescue you from that dreadful bubbling concoction.” He inclines himself slightly toward her and continues: “Bubbles vanish far too quickly. I should much prefer to see your lips acquainted with something richer… something that leaves a memory behind.”