‘So you don’t think I should go?’
Marianne shrugged. ‘It is up to you. You do not have to commit yourself, do you? The invitation is to supper, nothing more.’
‘And nothing more will be offered, I assure you.’
She had been out to supper with countless young men before and enjoyed their company, each time wondering before she went if this was the one who would fulfil her dream, but before the night was over, she had known he was not.
There were so many reasons: these sycophants did not have the title she craved; they were too young or too old; they were ugly and would give her ugly children; their conversation was a little too exuberant, or not exuberant enough. Some were fools, some gave every appearance of doing her a favour in spending money on a supper for her, some were married and expecting more than she was prepared to give. She did not intend to be anyone’s light o’ love.
‘But do have a care, Maddy, that you are not branded a tease.’
‘Have no fear, dear Marianne, you have taught me well.’
Maddy lingered over her toilette the following Monday night, spending more time than usual sitting before her mirror, removing the greasepaint from her face and brushing out her dark hair before coiling it up into a Grecian knot, before choosing a gown to wear. She prided herself on her good taste, and being a seamstress and a very good one meant that her clothes, though not numerous, were superbly made of the finest materials she could afford. It made her feel good to know that she could stand comparison with those who considered themselves her social superiors.
She slipped into a blue silk, whose fitted bodice and cross-cut skirt flowed smoothly over her curves. It had short puffed sleeves and a low neckline outlined with a cape collar which showed off her creamy shoulders and neck. She hesitated over wearing a necklace but, as most of her jewellery was paste, decided against it and fastened the odd ear drop in her ear before throwing a dark blue velvet burnoose over her shoulders and venturing out into the street.
Everyone but the night watchman had left and she half expected to find the road empty. It was her own fault if it was, she had kept him waiting and she could hardly complain if he had given up and gone home. But there was a carriage waiting. It was a glossy affair, though its colour she could not determine in the weak light from the street lamp. There was no sign of an occupant. Perhaps her admirer had simply sent the carriage to fetch her to wherever he was. She was not sure she liked that idea; it put her at a disadvantage. She stood, pulling her cloak closer round her, waiting for someone else to make the first move.
A hand came out of the door of the carriage, dangling an ear drop, the twin of the one she was wearing, and she heard a low chuckle. ‘If you come over here, my dear, I will fasten the other one for you. Beautiful as you are, you look slightly lopsided.’
‘Are you afraid to show your face, sir?’ she demanded.
‘Not at all.’ The door opened wide and a man jumped down and strode over to her. Young, but not juvenile, he was about five and twenty, she judged, and fashionably dressed for evening in a black tail-coat, a purple velvet waistcoat and a white shirt, whose lace cuffs fell from beneath his coat sleeves. A diamond pin glittered in the folds of his cravat. As he doffed his tall hat and bowed to her, she saw dark curls, and then, when he straightened again, humorous brown eyes beneath a pair of winged brows. His nose was long and straight and his mouth firm. He smiled, revealing even white teeth. ‘Here I am, your slave, ready to do your bidding.’
‘And does my slave have a name?’
‘Stanmore, Miss Charron. Duncan Stanmore, at your service.’
The name was familiar, and though she teased her brain, the when and where of it eluded her. She inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Mr Stanmore.’
‘I thought Reid’s for supper,’ he said. ‘Does that suit?’
‘And if I agree to that, I suppose I am to be rewarded with an ear drop.’
‘Oh, that is yours whether you come or no,’ he said lightly. ‘It would not be fair to dangle that in front of you like a carrot. That is not my way.’ He bowed. ‘But I would deem it an honour if you would have supper with me.’
‘Then supper it shall be.’
He gave a delighted laugh, which revealed the boy in him without in the least diminishing his stature, and led the way to the carriage, which she noticed, as she drew closer, had a crest upon its door. So Marianne had been right; he was not a commoner.
He handed her up into the carriage and made sure she was comfortable on the velvet seats before jumping up beside her. ‘Reid’s, Dobson,’ he told the driver.
The hotel was noted for its cuisine and was a favourite place of stage people and theatregoers alike, so it was busy, but as soon as the waiter saw her escort, he came forward with a broad smile. ‘Good evening, my lord. Your table is ready.’
Duncan smiled. ‘Thank you, Bundy. I knew I could rely on you.’
Her previous experience told her to expect a private room, or, at the very least, a table tucked away in some ill-lit corner where they would not be noticed and where her swain could bombard her with compliments and ply her with wine in the hope of his reward, but Duncan Stanmore obviously did not know the rules of the game. They were conducted to a small table to one side of the room, which, though discreet, gave a good view of all the other patrons and meant they could also be seen.
‘He addressed you as “my lord”,’ she said, when they were seated and the waiter had gone to fetch the champagne Duncan ordered.
He smiled. ‘Slip of the tongue, I expect. He knows better than that.’
‘You prefer to be incognito?’
He laughed. ‘That, my dear Miss Charron, would be impossible—in London, anyway. It is of no consequence. I do not expect you to address me formally. It would quite spoil the evening.’
He paused as the waiter returned with the wine, which he proceeded to pour for them. ‘The chef says he has a roast of beef as succulent as you’re likely to taste anywhere,’ the man said. ‘And there’s turbot in a shrimp sauce and suckling pig and ham what’ll melt in your mouth, not to mention sweetmeats and puddings—’
‘Goodness, I am not that hungry,’ Maddy said. She was laughing, but underneath the laughter were memories of a time when she had been starving and a tiny portion of the food the waiter was offering would have been a feast. Why could she never forget that? ‘A little of the fish removed with the beef will be quite sufficient, thank you.’
‘Then I will have the same,’ Duncan said.
‘Oh, please do not stint yourself because of me, my lord,’ Maddy said. ‘I will be quite content to watch you eat.’
‘I would rather talk than eat. And you forget, I am Duncan Stanmore, not Lord anything.’ He held up his wine to her. ‘To a beautiful companion.’ He took a mouthful, looking at her over the rim of his glass. She was beautiful, and not in the artful way of most actresses, achieved with paint and powder, a certain knowing expression and an exaggerated way of carrying themselves that commanded attention. Her loveliness was entirely natural. Her skin was flawless and her eyes, the deep blue of a woodland violet, were bright with intelligence and full of humour, though he detected just a hint of an underlying sadness about her
