There were many things he could have recognised the other as — scion of a famed hotel empire, fiancé to the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, famed equestrian, a member of the Society of which he so desperately clamoured to enter — whichever it was, it was clear: there was no way to lose this face into the crowd. Antony Hargreaves. “Mr. Hargreaves,” he greeted, standing upon the courtyard of New College, offering him a charismatic, if well-practiced smile, and then his hand to shake. “I believe we met briefly at the New Moon Ball? It’s a pleasure to see you here. Are you here for a tour, or are you here to do a bit of reccy?” he teased, his smile moving into something closer to an impish grin.