"Now that," Art said, his tone veering wistful, "Really is something." He'd been infamous — and rarely, just famous — in every room he had been in since he was nineteen. Maybe that would have changed eventually, except that captaining the British National Team in 1883 had pulled him back up into notoriety, and now Art knew he would never really shed it.

This was the first party he'd been at since Easter where he wasn't half-worried that Meredith Watchword was taking notes on him; even if she had somehow been here, Art wasn't the most interesting thing going on. No — the most interesting thing was definitely the waitstaff losing their clothes, and Art's gaze tracked one of the waiters for half a beat before flicking back to Selwyn.

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