Later, when Jack thought back over what happened during his stay in England, he would recall this occasion as vitally important, because it would lead him to Charlotte Conway. When he went downstairs to eat bread and marmalade and drink tea with Mrs. Palmer and her two pretty and flirtatious young daughters, he found that an even prettier and more flirtatious young woman had been invited especially to meet the famous American adventure writer. Her name was Nellie Lovelace, a former resident of the East End and now an actress of some fame. She was starring in a musical at the Royal Strand Theater, and before they had finished their first cup of tea, she had invited him to attend her Saturday night performance.

Charles Sheridan poured a glass of after-dinner port and handed it to his friend, Bradford Marsden. “Sit down, Marsden,” he said, gesturing to a chair in the smoking room at Sibley House, the Sheridans ’ London home. “I want to hear more about this new business enterprise of yours.”

But Bradford Marsden had picked up the Sunday Times from the table and was reading the front-page headline. “One wonders where this will lead,” he said grimly. “Sounds like a repetition of the bombing at Greenwich Park seven or eight years ago, but with a clearer intent.” He dropped the paper onto the table and sat down in the leather chair opposite Charles. “This sort of thing simply cannot be tolerated, Charles. The Yard must put an end to it, once and for all.”

Charles Sheridan pulled thoughtfully on his after-dinner pipe. “Well,” he said, “as to this particular incident, it would appear that the bomber has put an end to it-although not quite the end that he anticipated.”

Charles and Bradford had been friends from childhood, but they hadn’t been close since Bradford had involved himself with Cecil Rhodes and his Rhodesian enterprises. That connection had ended with Rhodes’s death the previous March, and Bradford had created a new investment brokerage business, which was doing quite well, it seemed. His marriage to Rhodes ’s goddaughter appeared to be progressing smoothly, too-at least, if one could judge by the way they had behaved at dinner that evening. Edith was intelligent and pretty and had produced a male heir within the first year. No wonder Bradford looked so smugly pleased with things, although Charles had to admit that his friend’s self-assured conviction that this was the best of all possible times grated a bit. He himself saw the world rather differently.

Bradford, a fair-haired man, rather heavily handsome, put his feet on a leather hassock and lit his cigar. “A pity the idiotic fellow blew himself up, if you ask me. It would have been better if an example could have been made of him-and sweet revenge, as well.”

“I rather think,” Charles said quietly, “that revenge is not the best course of action. The Anarchists believe that if the police and the courts can be provoked to harsh reactions, they will awaken the anger of the dispossessed and bring on the revolution. And they may be right.” He raised his glass in a mute salute. “After all, it’s happened before, in France and in America.”

Bradford lifted his glass. “And just how do you know what’s in the Anarchist mind, old chap?” he asked jokingly. “Haven’t gone over to their side, have you?”

This question, had it been meant seriously, would not have perturbed Charles, for it had been put to him any number of times by his colleagues in the House of Lords, who did not take it kindly when he supported the trade unions or advocated the removal of public education from ecclesiastic control. It did not ruffle him because he knew that his fellow Peers were as heedless of the need for social change as they were of the conditions that propelled it.

But the landed aristocracy took comfort in their ignorance at the peril of their way of life. England had been changing in very fundamental ways for seventy years now, and the longer this fact was ignored, the harder would be the lesson, when it came. The triumphant rise of science and technology had brought the nation unimaginable riches, but had also shredded the fabric of its closely-knit society. Not only had machines eliminated the need for unskilled manual labor, but they were also rapidly displacing the skilled wheelwrights, coopers, cabinetmakers, smiths, weavers, and others, once the proud flowering of the English laboring class, now tossed on the scrap heap of the unemployed. At the same time, technology had flooded the English agricultural markets with cheap food from around the world, displacing farm workers and undermining the economic foundation of the old aristocracy: the production of their vast lands. Charles saw the crisis looming, and knew that if it came, it would be catastrophic.

Bradford and his sort, on the other hand, with their keen sense of business and nose for opportunity, represented the promise of England’s future-but only if they recognized that while controlled capitalism would strengthen the entire country, uncontrolled capitalism would surely destroy it. Could they not see that everyone, rich and poor, must have a share in the future, or there would be no future for anyone? Could not some sort of compromise be found which allowed all to share in the opportunities of business and technology, or would the anger and frustration of the dispossessed ignite a final, terrible conflagration?

So in answer to Bradford ’s question, he reached under The Times and retrieved another newspaper, much thinner, scarcely a half-dozen pages. The banner declared it to be the Clarion.

Bradford frowned. “What are you doing with that garbage?”

“Better the enemy you know than the one you don’t,” Charles replied mildly, putting the newspaper down again. “The Clarion is sometimes strident, but most of it is quite well written, and it offers some interesting insights into the way these people think. This last issue suggested some ways that the fortune lavished on the Coronation might have been better spent to help those in need. It bears reading, Bradford.”

Bradford sat forward, frowning. “Answer me this, then, Charles. How is this lot to be dealt with, if not by the police and the courts?”

“Perhaps by addressing the underlying grievances,” Charles replied. “Wider suffrage, more employment, a more equitable distribution of wealth-”

“But that would mean the end of the rights of private property!” Bradford exclaimed heatedly. “Is that what you’re after?”

Charles shrugged. “Perhaps it would only be the end of the monopoly of privilege. Perhaps-”

There was a knock at the door and the butler entered. “Mr. Frederick Ponsonby to see you, m’lord.”

Charles and Bradford exchanged glances. Ponsonby was Assistant Personal Secretary and Equerry to His Majesty King Edward VII-in effect, a Royal messenger. Charles sighed and rose from his chair. A visit from this man, particularly at this hour of the evening, did not bode well. “Thank you, Richards. Show him in.”