You don’t see many cads in the wild any more: they are, perhaps, an extinct species. This staple of the 19th-century novel is a rare figure in mainstream literature these days. Undoubtedly if I looked hard enough, I would find a subculture of spicy contemporary rogues – tweet me your picks – but in this instance I am concerned with the noxious products of class and odiously outdated sexual politics that make me thankful to live in an age where I can get a credit card without my husband’s permission.
Dangerously handsome young men with more money than sense, often a dubious connection to empire, and maybe even a title, just don’t seem to be drinking and gambling their fortunes in London gentlemen’s clubs or ruining the lives of young maidens today. And why should they be? Women now get degrees and mortgages, and premarital sex won’t destroy their social standing. A one-night stand with a slightly Byronic posho is just a funny story to tell your friends, a trip to Boots for the morning-after pill, or at worst an outing to your local underfunded and understaffed sexual health clinic.
