Once inside, he threw his cashmere overcoat, slick with the filthy rain of London’s night, over an armchair, then stooped to pick up the wax-sealed packet lying on the floor. The seal was the Earl of Manchester’s. Inside was a very glossy brochure—"Nobles in Business: Strategies for Success"—listing more corporate sponsors than London had honest policemen. Accompanying it was a personal invitation to the Earl of Llanfrechfa from Charles Nakatomi of Fuchi Industrial Electronics, no less. Dumping it unceremoniously on the hall table, Geraint rubbed his forehead and pinched the sinuses throbbing over the bridge of his nose to stave off the dull ache in his head. He undressed in the palatial bathroom, put on his silk dragon kimono, and made for the enkephalins in the top desk drawer. Just for good measure, he also took a hit of flocculated ibuprofen complex to turn every voluntary muscle in his body to jelly as he collapsed into bed. Better living through chemistry, boyo. We’ll worry about the weekend and the after-effects tomorrow. Cambridge, here I come.