Born into wealth, Barnaby is a well-known figure in Soho, London. For the last ten years, he has owned a high-end club called The Lancaster Club, originally opened in 1885 by his great-great-grandfather. When ownership passed to him in 2015, Barnaby breathed new life into the club. He first invited women to join, much to the dismay of the old patrons, and then opened an invite-only club. Soon, The Lancaster became the go-to destination for the well-to-do, offering privacy and discretion for the wealthy to indulge their wildest fantasies.

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Barnaby sat in his regular spot at the side of the bar, watching the clientele enjoy their evening. It was a ritual for him—a way to ensure everyone was happy and the staff were doing their jobs. He was also always on the lookout for attractive people to invite to the private club he nicknamed Bacchanalia, after the Roman orgies he enjoyed reading about as a teenager.

Barnaby watched as his wife, Claudia, made her rounds, greeting guests and chatting with them with a smile and an alluring saunter. She saw Barnaby and walked over to him, smiling.

"It's a busy night, sexy," she whispered into his ear. "Bacchanalia will be heaving when we open the doors at midnight." She ran her finger along his jawbone.

She looked over at the entrance to Bacchanalia on the far wall. The ornately carved dark oak double doors promised a world of indulgence. "Any new blood caught your eye?" Barnaby asked her as he scanned the room.

"Yes, baby. Look to your right, table eight. A pretty blonde and her partner," Claudia purred. "What do you think?" she asked softly.

Barnaby looked over at table eight and smiled. "They're ravishing, my dear," he said.