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I have time for only one drink,” Jordan said, glancing at the ormolu clock on the opposite wall. “I’ve promised Alexandra to stand at her side at a ball tonight and beam approvingly at a friend of hers.” Whenever Jordan mentioned his wife’s name, Ian noted with amusement, the other man’s entire expression softened. “Care to join us?” Ian shook his head and accepted his drink from the footman. “It sounds boring as hell.” “I don’t think it’ll be boring, precisely. My wife has taken it upon herself to defy the entire ton and sponsor the girl back into the ranks. Based on some of the things Alexandra said in her note, that will be no mean feat.” “Why is that?” Ian inquired with more courtesy than interest. Jordan sighed and leaned his head back, weary from the hours he’d been working for the last several weeks and unexcited at the prospect of dancing attendance on a damsel in distress-one he’d never set eyes on. “The girl fell into the clutches of some man two years ago and an ugly scandal ensued.” Thinking of Elizabeth and himself, Ian said casually, “That’s not an uncommon occurrence, evidently.” “From what Alex wrote me, it seems this case is rather extreme.” “In what way?” “For one thing, there’s every chance the young woman will get the cut direct tonight from half the ton-and that’s the half that will be willing to acknowledge her. Alex has retaliated by calling in the heavy guns-my grandmother, to be exact, and Tony and myself, to a lesser degree. The object is to try to brave it out, but I don’t envy the girl. Unless I miss my guess, she’s going to be flayed alive by the wagging tongues tonight. Whatever the bastard did,” Jordan finished, downing his drink and starting to straighten in his chair, “it was damaging as hell. The girl-who’s purported to be incredibly beautiful, by the way-has been a social outcast for nearly two years.” Ian stiffened, his glass arrested partway to his mouth, his sharpened gaze on Jordan, who was already starting to rise. “Who’s the girl?” he demanded tautly. “Elizabeth Cameron.” “Oh, Christ!” Ian exploded, surging out of his chair and snatching up his evening jacket. “Where are they?” “At the Willington’s. Why?” “Because,” Ian bit out, impatiently shrugging into his jacket and tugging the frilled cuffs of his shirt into place, “I’m the bastard who did it.” An indescribable expression flashed across the Duke of Hawthorne’s face as he, too, pulled on his evening jacket. “You are the man Alexandra described in her note as an ‘unspeakable cad, vile libertine,’ and ‘despoiler of innocents’?” “I’m all that and more,” Ian replied grimly, stalking toward the door with Jordan Townsende beside him. “You go to the Willingtons’ as quickly as you can,” he instructed. “I’ll be close behind you, but I’ve a stop to make first. And don’t, for God’s sake, tell Elizabeth I’m on my way.” Ian flung himself into his coach, snapped orders to his driver, and leaned back, counting minutes, telling himself it couldn’t possibly be going as badly for her as he feared it would. And never once did he stop to think that Jordan Townsende had no idea what motives could possibly prompt Elizabeth Cameron’s “despoiler” to be bent on meeting her at the Willington’s ball.

Continuing to do research on genetic modification, and occasionally using successfully modified organisms for specific purposes such as the production of expensive drugs, make good sense. Helping developing countries to produce more food is a worthy aim, but it is sometimes used as an excuse for an alternative agenda, or as a convenient way to demonise opponents. There is little doubt that the technology needs better regulation: I find it bizarre that standard food safety tests are not required, on the grounds that the plants have not been changed in any significant way, but that the innovations are so great that they deserve patent protection, contrary to the long-standing view that naturally occurring objects and substances cannot be patented. Either it’s new, and needs testing like anything else, or it’s not, and should not be patentable. It is also disturbing, in an age when commercial sponsors blazon their logos across athletes’ shirts and television screens, that the biotechnology industry has fought a lengthy political campaign to prevent any mention of their product being placed on food. The reason is clear enough: to avoid any danger of a consumer boycott. But consumers are effectively being force-fed products that they may not want, and whose presence is being concealed. Our current understanding of genetics and ecology is inadequate when it comes to the widespread use of genetically modified organisms in the natural environment or agriculture. Why take the risk of distributing the material, when the likely gains for most of us – as opposed to short-term profits for biotechnology companies – are tiny or non-existent?

Good kit design is all about persuading the eye to go where you want it: usually the sponsor’s logo and kit brand followed by the club crest in a distant third. The best real estate for any product is the top left corner as our eyes, trained by a lifetime of reading from there, are primed to seek out anything shiny on the left rather than the right (unless you are a reader of Arabic or Urdu where words travel in the opposite direction).