following day, then?’
This time, a hint of colour did rise to her cheeks. ‘Mr Devlin, pray do not think me rude or unkind, but there really is no point in you calling. You have told me all I wanted to hear.’
‘About the play, perhaps, but there is so much more—’
‘Actually, there is nothing more,’ she interrupted. ‘I appreciate the trouble you went to in finding me, but it would be best if you did not pursue this. It is evident we would not suit.’
‘Not suit?’ He gazed at her in confusion. ‘How can you say that when you know absolutely nothing about me?’
‘Ah, but I do know something about you, Mr Devlin, and it is that which compels me to demur. Good evening.’
With that, she walked towards the double doors where her brother was waiting for her and, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, left the theatre with him.
Too bemused to offer a reply, Alistair watched them go, aware that for the first time in his life he was actually at a loss for words. The lady had put him off! He had gone to the trouble of tracking her down and of making his interest known—and she had put him off. Not because she hadn’t known who he was—but because she had!
‘What, still here, Dev?’ Collins said, sauntering across the floor to join him. ‘I thought you left half an hour ago.’
‘I did, but I ran into Miss Bretton and stopped to have a word.’
‘How providential,’ Collins drawled. ‘Well, what did you think? Was she as tactless and unpredictable as I led you to believe?’
The question recalled Alistair to the lady’s parting words. ‘I appreciate the trouble you went to in finding me, but it would be best if you did not pursue this. It is evident we would not suit.’
‘She was far from tactless, but I am not convinced that meeting me was the highlight of her evening,’ Alistair said drily.
‘Nonsense! Any girl would be delighted at being singled out for attention by a nonpareil like you.’
Alistair didn’t bother telling his friend that Miss Bretton hadn’t seemed at all delighted by her so-called good fortune. On the contrary, she seemed genuinely convinced they had nothing in common—and, irrationally, that irked him. While it was true they might not have anything in common, how could she know until they’d had an opportunity to spend some time together? A man deserved a chance to fall from grace before a lady cast him out. Surely it was only fair he be given that chance before being dismissed out of hand.
Victoria had not spent many hours in sleep that night. How could she have slept when everything within her was shouting with joy! She had wanted to dance across the rooftops, to shout her happiness from the top of St Paul’s.
A Lady’s Choice had been a success! The cast had recited their lines to perfection, the scene changes had gone without a hitch and the musicians had timed their crescendos and pianissimos exquisitely. If she died this very instant, she would go to heaven with the most contented smile on her face.
The fact she had spent time talking to one of London’s most eligible bachelors really had nothing to do with it. It had been pleasant to bandy words with the gentleman and flattering to know that he was interested in calling upon her, but at the moment, there was no room for romance in Victoria’s life. And certainly not with a man like that!
‘Alors, you are finally awake!’ her maid said, appearing at Victoria’s bedside with a cup of warm chocolate. ‘And looking very ‘appy.’
‘That’s because I am happy, Angelique.’ Victoria sat up and stretched her arms over her head. ‘It was a very good night.’
‘Zey liked your play?’
‘They loved my play! The applause went on for ever and the cast was called back three times to take their bows!’
‘Bon! Did I not tell you it would be so?’
‘Oh, yes, you can say that now when you know everything turned out well. That isn’t what we were saying this time yesterday. At least,’ Victoria added with a frown, ‘it wasn’t what I was saying.’
‘Zat is because you do not ‘ave enough confidence in yourself.’
‘That’s not true! I do have confidence in myself, but I write plays that suit me. I don’t always know if they will suit my audience.’
‘Of course zey will suit your audience,’ the feisty little maid said. ‘You are very good at what you do! Your uncle tells you so all ze time.’
Yes, because Uncle Theo had always been one of her most staunch supporters, Victoria reflected. He was the one who had encouraged her to write, impressing upon her the importance of allowing her artistic side to flourish, no matter what her mother or the rest of society thought.
Speaking of her mother … ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Mama yet this morning?’ Victoria enquired.
When Angelique didn’t answer, Victoria turned her head—and saw the answer written all over the maid’s face. ‘Ah. I see that you have.’
‘Do not take it to ‘eart, mademoiselle,’ Angelique said quickly. ‘Madame Bretton does not love le théâtre as you do. She would prefer zat you find a nice man and get married.’
‘Yes, I know, but a nice man won’t let me write plays,’ Victoria pointed out. ‘He will expect me to sit at home and knit tea cosies.’
‘Tea … cosies?’
‘Hats for teapots.’
‘Your teapots wear ‘ats?’ Angelique frowned. ‘You English are very strange.’
Victoria just laughed and sent the maid on her way. She sometimes forgot that while Angelique knew everything there was to know about taking care of a lady, she was far less adept when it came to making conversation with one. Still, it came as no surprise to Victoria that her mother wasn’t pleased about her success at the theatre last night. Having been raised in a rigidly moralistic house where the only occupations deemed acceptable for a woman were those of wife and mother, Mrs Bretton decried the idea of her eldest daughter doing anything else.
A lady did not involve herself with the world of the theatre. A lady did not write plays that poked fun at members of society. And a lady did not discourage gentlemen who came up to them and made polite conversation, the way the dashing Mr Alistair Devlin had last night.
Oh, yes, she’d known who he was. Between her mother pointing him out to her at society events and listening to Winifred go on about him until she was tired of hearing his name, Victoria knew all about Alistair Devlin. The man owned a string of high-priced race horses, kept a mistress in Kensington and a hunting box in Berkshire, and was equally skilled in the use of pistol or foil. He patronized Weston’s for his finery, Hobbs’s for his boots and Rundell and Bridge for his trinkets.
He was also a viscount’s son—a man who moved in elevated circles and who possessed the type of wealth and breeding that would naturally preclude her from being viewed as a potential
