Champagne flowed freely between the whispers and forced pleasantries. The same people gathered every fortnight, yet none recalled the names of their conversation partners. In some ways a large party such as this offered greater privacy than any intimate soirée, the guests far too taken by their own small groups, which made leeway for some interesting encounters.

Mr. Porter—though never called that here—was never late. He came for the music, perhaps, the gin, or the relief of not carrying the weight of his family's legacy for an evening. But mostly, he came for her, the woman who never stayed long enough to say goodbye, who once dared to call him dull. She arrived like a secret and left like a storm, all perfume and cigarette smoke, yet he still foolishly waited, as if she might forget to disappear this time.

He wasn't sure why it mattered to him so.

And yet, when she arrived wrapped in shadow and silk, he straightened, taking a sip of his brandy (served neat, as always). The amber liquid burned slightly as it went down, warming him against the cool evening air. His eyes followed the familiar figure across the room, assessing how quickly the night might turn, how far things might go. That is, until someone said something they couldn't take back – again.

Like a curtain drawn across a painting, Mr. Dunley's shoulder obscured his view. The good-natured acquaintance clapped him on the shoulder, "Wes, old man!"

The man was an acquaintance who was too much of a brown-noser to think for himself, clinging to the most powerful person in the room, begging for approval. He simply couldn't refuse a single chance at networking. Wesley grumbled under his breath, bracing himself for endless chatter, "Of course it's you."

"As ever, your timing is impeccable." The reply was dry and unreadable. Mr. Dunley didn't take the jab personally, his laugh booming across the room like a cannon shot. What followed was all a blur, filled with half-hearted responses and distracted nods, thoughts wandering elsewhere as champagne glasses clinked and jazz notes swirled through the air.

For once he was thankful for James' thirst for booze, for as soon as his throat grew dry, he scurried away with a quick goodbye to the refreshments table as if the dam that was his mouth had never broken with the flood of words, or rather verbal vomit. Wesley thought that description suited Dunley's endless prattling perfectly.

He watched the fool finally wander off before finishing his drink with a single, measured sip, placing the empty glass on a nearby silver tray held by a silent waiter. Porter cut through the room with ease, brushing off the fawning debutantes desperate to catch his attention in their natural habitat. Their conversations followed nothing but gossip, no substance, no depth.

His hand brushed the small of her back, a fleeting touch as Wesley rounded to face her, a slight curve tugging at his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes, "Still vanishing mid-sentence, I see."

"How very you," his voice dropped into that low rasp that always seemed to carry across a crowded room, mingling with the jazz and the clink of glasses, the whispered secrets and the unspoken desires that hung heavy in the air like perfume.