open starter –– gabriel anderton, almack's.
his father had been a gentleman, and although his blood was hardly aristocratic, colin anderton's lucrative business endeavours had paved the way for his children's entrée into the so-called beau monde. gabriel was not unfamiliar with those gathered at almack's tonight –– impeccable breeding tended to produce a closed-knit society, a crop of over-familiar faces. half of the assembled gentlemen he'd rubbed elbows with at st. pauls, or eton; the other half, he recognised from the gambling tables of white's. a glass of ratafia in hand, a pair of copper brows furrow as his eyes scan the crowd, a sea of peach satin-silks and feathered plumes, a flushed crush of bodies twirling beneath the heat of at least a dozen twinkling chandeliers. "almack's may be a far cry from billingsgate, but the stench is not altogether very different." the captain clears his throat, bemused. "–– another drink?"
