Mrs. Grant gazed at the tall young man before her, whose notorious reputation was matched only by his refined and elegant appearance. With a playful smile, she said, “Henry Bolton—your father was once a renowned scholar of the Great Tang, famous throughout the land. I suppose the son of William Bolton can’t be lacking in literary talent either. Very well, recite for me. If you do well, I shall reward you handsomely.”

“Yes.” Henry Bolton cast a glance at this infamous Mrs. Grant recorded in the annals of history, bowed once more, and then said in a clear voice, “Madam, the second son of the Grand Justice Mr. Foster, Philip Foster, is also a man of great learning, especially skilled in poetry. Today’s poetry gathering is a rare opportunity. I would like to compose in turn with Second Young Master Foster to entertain you, if you would permit it.”

Mrs. Grant let out an “oh,” her beautiful, voluptuous face brimming with amusement. She glanced outside the venue, then laughed aloud, “Very well. Since you two are so eager, I shall graciously accept. Someone, go invite the second son of the Simon Foster family, Philip Foster, to join us.”

In fact, there was no need to send for him. Henry Bolton’s words, spoken in public, had already reached the ears of Philip Foster and everyone present.

While Henry Bolton’s reputation was indeed unsavory, The Foster Residence’s Philip Foster was no better—his notoriety was also well known. The two notorious playboys of Chang’an were now publicly challenging each other, a “dog-eat-dog” spectacle—so as soon as Henry Bolton spoke, many couldn’t help but snicker. Even Frederick Shaw and Ethan Brooks turned around with interest, ready to watch the show.

Amidst the whispers and curious stares, Henry Bolton stood up straight in the center of the venue. He beckoned to Philip Foster at the edge of the crowd, and with a cold smile said, “Second Young Master Foster, the lady has summoned you. When will you enter if not now?”

Philip Foster glared fiercely at Henry Bolton, gritting his teeth in secret, thinking: Fine, I’ll go up. Am I supposed to be afraid of you, you little scoundrel? I don’t believe you can actually compose a poem.

The two had been running together for over a year and knew each other well. Philip Foster was sure Henry Bolton was just bluffing, but in public, he couldn’t let the The Foster Family lose face, so he forced himself to step into the center.

The scholars and nobles present all sat or stood, smiling knowingly, amused as they watched the two Chang’an rakes prepare to put on a good show.

“After you, Second Young Master,” Henry Bolton said with a wave and a smile.

Philip Foster glared at Henry Bolton, but sneered, “You first. If you can compose, then so can I. Henry Bolton, today I want to see how a scoundrel like you, who can’t even write proper prose, can possibly compose a poem.”

“And if I can?” Henry Bolton stared at Philip Foster, waved his hand lightly, and smiled calmly, “What will you do then?”

“Then—I’ll lose a hundred strings of cash to you!” Philip Foster blurted out in anger, forgetting this was a refined poetry banquet among the elite, and snapped, “If you can’t compose, then you’ll give me your white parrot from Cilicia! Do you dare to bet?”

Truly incorrigible playboys. To start gambling at such an occasion—well, gambling itself was no big deal, but to wager such a frivolous plaything was hardly proper—everyone burst into laughter, and even famous scholars like Wang Wei frowned in silence.

“Fine. If I can’t compose a poem about willows, I’ll give you the white parrot. But if I do, I don’t want your hundred strings of cash. All I ask is that you apologize to me in public and say, ‘Philip Foster is a good-for-nothing fool!’” Henry Bolton’s lips curled into a strange smile as he teased.

“You little scoundrel!…” Philip Foster was about to explode in anger, but saw Henry Bolton bowing once more to Mrs. Grant, “Madam, please bear witness!”

“Good, good, good! I shall be the witness for you two young gentlemen. With myself and the other esteemed guests as witnesses, no one is allowed to cheat.” Mrs. Grant burst out laughing, repeating “good” three times, her ornate chest heaving with mirth.

She had organized this poetry banquet at Qujiang Pool purely out of boredom for her own amusement. To her, watching Henry Bolton and Philip Foster put on this “performance” was far more entertaining than any poetry contest.

With Mrs. Grant’s declaration, no one else could object, and the two were left to their antics.

Philip Foster was so angry his face turned pale, clenching his teeth and lowering his head. He dared not offend Mrs. Grant in public, so he could only wait bitterly for Henry Bolton to make a fool of himself.

“Utterly shameless!” Frederick Shaw sneered with a curl of his lips.

Beside him, Ethan Brooks echoed disdainfully, “Utterly boring. These two fools are truly despicable.”

Harold Crane sighed quietly, then silently looked toward the group of ladies outside the venue. Not far away, surrounded by several maids, stood a beautiful girl of sixteen or seventeen, with a graceful figure, bright eyes, and white teeth. She frowned, watching Henry Bolton chatting and laughing in the center, her pretty face flushed with embarrassment.

It was none other than Harold Crane’s half-sister, Eugene Crane.

Though she detested Henry Bolton and strongly opposed marrying him, and the The Crane Family also intended to break off the engagement, until the betrothal was officially dissolved, Henry Bolton was still her fiancé in name.

For him to make such a shameless spectacle of himself in public, Eugene Crane felt her face burning with shame.