The club where Jenkins was scheduled to et the two young noblewon was on Sheftil Avenue, the very sa street where he had hired his maid.
It was already two in the afternoon when he stepped out of the carriage with his cat.
"Why can he go in?"
He had just lifted his foot to step through the main entrance when he heard a voice from the side. He turned to see a young man, clutching his hat, pointing at Jenkins while loudly complaining to the club guard who was restraining him.
His face was covered in freckles, the tip of his nose was tinged with red, and his thin face was frad by a receding hairline.
Noticing Jenkins's gaze, he imdiately dropped his hand and offered an apologetic smile.
"My apologies, sir. I don't an you, specifically. I'm just complaining to this gentleman about how unfair this is."
Judging from his attire, the young man was probably a university student. Jenkins had recently picked up the skill of gauging a person's inco by their clothes, and he surmised that this student's finances were likely on par with those of Black Velte, the art student he'd shot and killed on that rainy night.
"This man and I have no quarrel. Why am I making such an ominous comparison?" he thought to himself.
The thought made him pause instinctively.
"What seems to be the matter?"
He directed his question to the guard.
"My apologies for the disturbance, Mr. Williams."
He dipped his head slightly, then explained in a gruff tone:
"This Mr. George Liverpool here was trying to force his way into the club, but he doesn't have an invitation from any of the ladies."
Young Mr. Liverpool's face imdiately flushed. He quickly lowered his head, feigning an adjustnt to his necktie. There had been a bit of a scuffle between the two during his eviction.
"This Mr. Williams has an invitation, so he may enter."
The guard added, turning to Liverpool, before issuing a warning:
"This club is private property. If you persist in trying to enter, I'll have you sent to KalFax Field."
The guard's handling of the situation seed perfectly reasonable, so Jenkins simply shrugged and continued on his way.
"I think I heard a quarrel outside."
As he pushed open the door, he heard Miss Mikhail pose a question to Hathaway.
"Soone was trying to force their way into the club."
He answered offhandedly, smiling and nodding to the two won as he handed his hat and greatcoat to a nearby maid.
Both ladies stood up at the sa ti. Hathaway took half a step back, subtly making Miss Mikhail's position more prominent.
"Baron Williams, it's been a while."
Miss Mikhail smiled, extending her right hand, palm down. Her hands were beautiful, free of any rings, and she wore a pair of long, white lace gloves.
Jenkins paused for a second, but Hathaway quickly flashed the number 23 with her hand, keeping it low. He imdiately rembered the instructions for the formal hand-kiss on page 23 of his notes. He had studied it carefully, but this was his first ti putting it into practice.
After a slight cough, he stepped forward with a smile, bowed his head respectfully, and took the blonde young lady's right hand in his own. He then leaned down and brushed his closed lips symbolically against the back of her gloved hand.
He caught the rich scent of her perfu, and it made his nose itch.
"I recall this gesture being reserved for married won."
He wondered to himself, suspecting that perhaps his study of etiquette hadn't been diligent enough and he'd overlooked a key point.
Once the three of them were seated, maids brought out tea and pastries, and Jenkins presented the gifts he had brought.
He gave Miss Mikhail a handcrafted quill pen—an item whose ornantal value far outweighed its practical use in this day and age. For Hathaway, he presented a unique painted ceramic figurine of an angel with outstretched arms.
The figurine had been a last-minute addition. As he was leaving the church, Bishop Strick heard he was short one souvenir and took the liberty of getting it from the cathedral. It was rumored to have been blessed by Pontiff IV himself.
"That commotion outside... it wasn't George Liverpool again, was it?"
"It was. Is he famous?"
Jenkins asked, picking through the sweets for one that Chocolate might like.
"Both Mr. Liverpool and Miss Jennifer Lawrence are students at the St. Chekhov Institute of Steam Technology. He fell for her at first sight, which is a common enough tale."
Despite this assessnt, Miss Mikhail's tone was rather dismissive. She gave a soft huff, shook her head, and leaned forward to push Jenkins's teacup and so of the pastries a little closer to him.
"Doesn't Miss Lawrence like Liverpool?"
"Jennifer doesn't even know his na. Lately, she's been worried she has a stalker."
It was Miss Mikhail who answered once again, while Hathaway maintained her usual quiet and timid facade. Sotis, Jenkins thought, her acting was even better than his.
Then again, she still hadn't figured out that he had appeared before her under several different identities.
"That's a real pity."
Jenkins murmured, finally choosing a green sweet from the candy box. Since Chocolate was so fond of the Life Pearl, he figured the cat would probably like this, too.
The tale of a poor young student pursuing a rich young miss didn't interest Jenkins in the slightest, so they let the topic drop and moved on to the real reason for their eting: the famous author's stories from his travels.
Both ladies were fascinated by the Queen and Miss Windsor, tirelessly asking for details about what they wore and offering their own comntary on the fashion.
"I've heard so interesting rumors..."
Miss Mikhail changed the subject, gently stirring her tea. "I heard that last week in Bel Diran, there was a formal duel between two nobles. And a certain author, I'm told, rather stole the show."
Hathaway covered her mouth and laughed elegantly.
"Oh, I suppose you could say that."
He replied with so embarrassnt. In his view, defeating an ordinary man in a straightforward fight was hardly sothing to boast about. He was far more interested in sharing his experience at the circus—that had been truly brilliant—but he suspected the noble ladies would find such a thing too coarse for their tastes.
"Young Galvin utterly disgraced himself this ti. The last ti I saw him, at the opera in Bel Diran, I could already tell he wasn't a particularly clever man."
"He was probably provoked. Young n are often like that."
He answered absently, his mind drifting to the lion that had leaped through a flaming hoop. Perhaps he could train Chocolate to do sothing similar.
"Aren't you a young man yourself?"
Miss Mikhail retorted, signaling for a nearby maid in a white apron to refill their cups.
"I'm speaking of my psychological age. For so people, there's a discrepancy between their actual age and how old they feel."
"But the Galvin family is in real trouble now. Surely you've seen the recent newspapers."
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