Conall usually disdained the sort – wealthy eccentrics – but Prewett’s irascible demeanour was, admittedly, his saving grace.

Well, his demeanour and his enviable store of alcohol. And the collection of creatures he had, of course, but by this point Conall had moved on to dealing with the man. “For my visit – or to your menagerie?” he asked, with a dry laugh.

Still, he took the proffered drink like it was all the payment he required, and, once the butler had retreated and he’d scratched the wolfhound behind the ears, Conall was comfortable enough to take a chair of his own.

---