The Gentleman's Walking Stick

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On a rainy morning in 1817, I visited Bond Street to purchase a bauble for my lady.

I gazed at trays of glittering jewels in the shop I entered and dreamed of adorning Lady Breckenridge with the best of them. I knew, however, that my captain's half-pay would allow me only the simplest of trinkets. The proprietor knew it too and abandoned me for the more prosperous-looking patrons who walked in behind me.

"Is it Captain Lacey?" a male voice rang out. "Jove, it is, as I live and breathe."

I turned to see a man of thirty-odd, his light brown hair damp with rain, favoring me with a familiar and hearty grin. In spite of the weather, his clothing was impeccable, from his pantaloons and polished Hessians to a fashionably tied cravat. An equally well-dressed older gentleman I didn't know stood behind him with a matron and a young woman with red-gold hair.

"Summerville," I said in surprise and pleasure.

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