'I beg your pardon.'

'The awkward squad. That's what the vicereine calls us – the aides that is. Sorry, I'm being terribly rude. Comes from being a bit hungover.' He stood up and offered his hand to Arthur. 'Buck Whaley's the name.'

'Buck?'

'It's what they call me here,' he smiled.'My real name is simply too hideous to repeat. How do you do?'

'Fine, thanks. Rather better than most of the officers on the staff, I suspect.'

'You heard about last night then?' Whaley laughed out loud, then winced and clapped a hand to his forehead. 'Damn!'

'Does this sort of thing go on all the time?' asked Arthur.

'You can't imagine. I tell you, Wesley, this place is far more dangerous than being on active service. If the drink doesn't get you then the creditors will. We lost two aides last year.'

'Accidents?' Arthur ventured.

'No.They just drank themselves to death.We lost four aides in accidents.'

'Oh.'

The sound of shouting echoed down the corridor and Whaley nodded his head in that direction. 'There's the captain now. I imagine he's got a bit of a head on him so watch your step,Wesley.'

'Right. I'll see you later.'

Arthur hurried back to his chair and sat down.

A man burst in through the door at the end of the corridor, bellowing back over his shoulder, 'I don't care where he's got to, Sergeant! Just make sure that coffee is on my desk, piping hot, in less than ten minutes. If it's not I'll have you broken back to private and shovelling shit from the stables before the day is out. D'you hear?'

Grumbling, he stamped down the corridor towards Wesley. His jacket was hanging half open and with a curse he tried to button it up as he stamped along. Not an easy task since Captain Wilmott was exceedingly overweight and the waistband of his breeches cut into the rolls of fat beneath, straining buttons above and below what might once have been his waistline. He walked up to his office, glanced at Wesley as the latter stood up and saluted.Wilmott lurched inside. There was a short pause and a curse and then his head appeared round the doorframe.

'And who the hell are you?'

'Lieutenant Wesley, sir.'

'Not the new aide-de-camp?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You're bloody early, man. I'm not ready to see you yet.'

Arthur composed himself. 'Yes, sir. I like to be prompt.'

'Prompt? Prompt is just on time, Wesley. Not bloody hours ahead of time.'

'Hours, sir?'

'Well, as good as. Still, you're here. Might as well see you now. Come on, Wesley. Come in. Don't dawdle. I'm a busy man. Have to see my tailor as soon as possible.'

He ducked back inside and Arthur picked up his coat and entered his office. The captain waved towards a chair on the near side of his desk. 'Sit there.'

Arthur sat down and the captain continued struggling with his buttons, all the while growing steadily more frustrated and angry so that his blotchy face turned quite red. At length he succeeded and sat heavily in his chair on the other side of the desk. He thrust out his hand.

'Your papers. Let's have 'em.'

Arthur handed them over and sat back in his chair as the captain glanced through the documents and then tossed them to one side.

'Well, they seem to be in order. I'll have the sergeant prepare an office for you. Have you found adequate lodgings?'

'Yes, sir. On Ormonde Quay.'

'Good. That's good. Well then, don't let me keep you.'

'Sir?'

Captain Wilmott fixed him with the same stare that a man might bestow on a village idiot, before he gestured towards the door. 'Go.'

'Sir, I had made an appointment to see you so that you might explain my duties as an aide-de-camp.'

'Duties?'The captain laughed.'There are no duties here, sir. No real duties.You may be called upon to run the occasional errand for the viceroy or the vicereine. Beyond that your only duty is to make sure that you make up the numbers in the ballroom during the winter season and the picnics when the summer comes, if it ever does in this benighted little island. Have you ever been to Ireland before, Wesley?'

'Yes, sir.' Arthur replied quietly. 'I was born here. My family have an estate in Meath.'

'Oh, really?'The captain replied as if this was the most boring piece of information he had heard in many years. 'Well, you'll know what a damp, nasty pile of peat Ireland is then.'

Arthur shrugged. 'If you say so, sir.'

'I do and it is. Now where's that bloody coffee?'

As if on cue the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. A moment later the sergeant entered the room with a tray on which a pot and a cup and saucer were balanced.

'About time!' the captain grumbled.

The sergeant, chest heaving, glanced at the other officer. 'Would you like me to get another cup, sir?'

'What? No, I wouldn't. The lieutenant is just leaving.'

Arthur soon discovered it was as Captain Wilmott had said.There were no real duties at the castle for the aides. There were plenty of petty tasks, though, such as hand-delivering engraved invitations to balls to the finest households in Dublin. Or overseeing the order in which coaches were permitted to enter the castle, since the social order was even more rigidly enforced here than back in England. Perhaps the most onerous aspect of the posting was having to attend every social event organised by the vicereine – everything from quiet but intense afternoons at whist to raucous balls where the resident German band played loud music into the small hours. Lady Buckingham delighted in being surrounded by the band of young officers attached to her husband's office. At balls Arthur and the others were compelled to attend to her for the first few hours, after which they were used as a pool of dancing partners for all the young and not so young ladies that had been invited. As the weeks passed Arthur sometimes felt that he was little more than a glorified male escort.

Outside of these duties the aides' time was their own and as young gentlemen will, they squandered it in an orgy of drinking, gambling, duelling and whoring. The latter was a pleasure Arthur had discovered as a member of the officers' mess in Chelsea.

Over the last hundred years Dublin had expanded at an astonishing rate, quickly spilling out into the surrounding countryside even as the slums filled to overflowing. With the establishment of an Irish parliament in Dublin, the city had drawn all those seeking political favours and sinecures, all of which were in the power of the viceroy to grant. It had also attracted swarms of lawyers, doctors, builders, brothel keepers and any manner of other professions that could smell money like hounds smell a fox. There was no pleasure, luxury or vice that could not be bought somewhere in the city if you had the right connections. The officers serving at Dublin Castle were well connected in that respect, and within a matter of weeks Arthur was familiar with the best clubs and brothels. The problem for Arthur was that these pursuits came at a price that far exceeded the modest income of a lieutenant of infantry.The reserve that he had hoarded from the gifts of money given to him by members of the family before he left for Ireland was soon eaten up.

That was when he discovered his first true weakness in life. With the arrival of spring the racing season began again and the rattlers, dashers and rompers – as the officers like to style themselves – descended on the racecourse to watch the horses, look over the women and place their bets. One day, early in May, Arthur shared a carriage to the racecourse with Buck Whaley and two other aides, Piers Henderson and Dancing Jack Courtney. The sun, for once, was shining down from a clear blue sky and the good weather seemed to have lifted the spirits of the crowds streaming along the lanes to the racecourse. The officers descended from the carriage and, wielding their canes, forced their way through the crowds and into the main enclosure. The air was filled with the cries of hawkers and bookies, struggling to be heard above the excited hubbub of the racegoers.