Bruce was American, and utterly unfamiliar with all this new British madness.

His steward, Alfred, had promised him London was better than Gotham. Safer, cleaner, calmer — and in some ways it was. But the endless parade of parties hosted by the so-called Bright Young Things was driving him mad.

They were the children of aristocrats and socialites, alumni of Oxford and Cambridge, dabblers in literature and the arts. They spoke in a strange blend of high society English and borrowed American slang, drank as though Prohibition had chased them across the ocean, and smoked as though it were a competitive sport. Bruce had come looking for partners to expand his business, and yet somehow he was dragged into champagne-soaked nights that left him increasingly weary.

He could usually hold his liquor better than anyone — but tonight’s drink had been different. The glass pressed into his hand tasted sharper, stronger. Something in it was wrong, and though he tried to steady himself, the room blurred faintly at the edges.

The theme of the night was The Tudors: a costume masquerade where courtiers and queens mingled across the dance floor. His friends, laughing, had insisted the American make a proper Henry VIII. The velvet, the jewels, even the crown — all of it sat heavily on him.

And then he saw her. A woman in a mask and gown, playing the part of one of Henry’s queens. He guessed Anne Boleyn. With a languid step, Bruce rose and approached. Sliding an arm lightly around her waist, he leaned just enough to let his voice carry in a conspiratorial murmur. A cigarette rested between his fingers, waiting.

“Will you do me the honor, Lady Boleyn? A king mustn’t be seen without his queen… nor without a light.”