It was just that the mutual flattery between Young Master Clark and his group of disreputable friends made Adam Sullivan, who was standing at a distance, feel an irresistible urge to escape. He had immersed himself in all kinds of arts his whole life, from poetry and painting to porcelain and sculpture, and had achieved extraordinary mastery. Encountering this group of pretentious dilettantes, Adam Sullivan could only look to the heavens in speechless exasperation.

Standing beneath the willow trees, Adam Sullivan appeared somewhat aloof and distinguished compared to the other servants and attendants. A few of the attendants found Adam Sullivan rather disagreeable, so they gathered together to chat idly, deliberately excluding Adam Sullivan from their circle.

Adam Sullivan smiled, his gaze falling on the wine jar held by one of the attendants. His nose twitched slightly as the rich aroma of the wine lingered around his nostrils.

“Good wine!” Adam Sullivan moved closer. “If I’m not mistaken, this must be a ten-year-old Zhuyeqing. Just from the scent alone, I can tell it’s a top-tier wine.”

The attendant holding the wine jar was named Charles Bolton, a follower of Young Master Bolton. He shot Adam Sullivan a cold glance. “Of course, the wine my young master brings is excellent. But this wine isn’t for the likes of us servants—what are you so happy about?”

The other attendants all burst out laughing. Someone said, “Maybe he wants a taste too, who knows? Too bad his parents aren’t nobles—he can only look and not touch.”

Adam Sullivan smiled faintly. “So you’re all certain I won’t get to drink this wine?”

“So what if we are?” Charles Bolton hugged the wine jar tighter, his eyes full of contempt.

Adam Sullivan sighed. “I really admire your courage. Let’s make a bet. If I don’t get to drink this Zhuyeqing, I’ll pay each of you one string of coins. But if I do?”

Charles Bolton and the other attendants exchanged glances, unsure if Adam Sullivan had lost his mind. A string of coins was a month’s wages for a servant, and with four attendants here including Charles Bolton, if Adam Sullivan lost, he’d have to pay out half a year’s expenses.

Charles Bolton’s eyes darted. “If you want to bet, fine. If you manage to drink this Zhuyeqing, we’ll each pay you a string of coins. But let’s be clear—you have to drink it in front of the young masters.”

Charles Bolton was afraid Adam Sullivan would try to cheat, sneaking a taste in secret—wouldn’t that be falling for his trick?

Adam Sullivan immediately put on a troubled expression. “Is that so... All right, I’ll give it a try.”

The four attendants burst out laughing, and Charles Bolton was inwardly delighted. This wine was Young Master Bolton’s treasured stash, his most prized possession. For this clueless newcomer to dare drink it in front of the young masters—if they got angry, they’d beat him to death for sure.

Of the three young masters, one had the surname Zhou, given name Henry, the legitimate son of the Duke of Qi, and the main master whom Adam Sullivan served. The other two were surnamed Zhang and Wang; Young Master Bolton was the son of the Deputy Chief of the Secretariat, and the Wang family was also no ordinary lineage, being one of the wealthiest in Bianjing.

The three of them were notorious playboys in Bianjing, killing a man was nothing to them. This fellow surnamed Shen really valued money over his own life.

At this moment, Young Master Bolton’s voice called out from the pleasure boat, “Charles Bolton, why haven’t you brought my wine yet?”

Adam Sullivan said to Charles Bolton, “I’ll take it over.”

Charles Bolton handed the wine jar to Adam Sullivan, eager to watch the show. He’d disliked this newcomer from the start, and now he could both embarrass him and win a string of coins—what could be better?

Adam Sullivan carried the wine jar along the riverbank onto the pleasure boat. Young Master Bolton looked a bit displeased. “Why didn’t that dog Charles Bolton bring the wine himself?”

Adam Sullivan smiled. “His arm was feeling a bit numb, and he was afraid of disturbing the young masters’ enjoyment, so he asked me to do it for him.”

He broke the clay seal and poured wine for the young masters, saying, “Young Master Bolton’s wine is truly excellent. Just the aroma alone has already made me half-drunk.”

Young Master Bolton, tall and thin, looked even more striking, and the powder on his face revealed a hint of flush. “Of course. I usually can’t bear to drink such fine wine myself—only when I’m with close friends do I bring it out.”

Henry Clark, parched from reciting poetry earlier, was full of anticipation. He picked up his cup and took a small sip, exclaiming, “Excellent wine, excellent wine! Young Master Bolton’s poetry is fine, and so is his wine.”

Young Master Bolton hurriedly replied with humility, “The Duke of Qi’s household has plenty of good wine. I’m just making a modest offering.”

The group continued to flatter each other, but Adam Sullivan could hardly stand it any longer. He chuckled and said, “Actually, when it comes to this wine, I have a special skill, though I fear it might make the young masters laugh.”

Henry Clark’s face darkened and he scolded, “You dog, how dare you speak out of turn while I’m drinking with my two brothers?”

Adam Sullivan quickly apologized, but Young Master Bolton interjected, “Don’t be hasty, Brother Zhou. Let’s hear what he has to say. We’ve recited poetry and admired the scenery—just in need of some amusement.”

Adam Sullivan pretended to be cautious. “I was born with a peculiar condition: whenever I drink inferior wine, black spots appear on my face, but if the wine is good, there’s no problem at all. To know whether a wine is top quality, I just need to taste it.”

Henry Clark was a bit annoyed. “You dog, are you saying Young Master Bolton’s wine is inferior?”

Adam Sullivan shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. The wine is certainly good, but just how good, I can’t say for sure yet.”