LITMIR.BIZ

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isn’t talking and neither is Templeton. But it’s the reason Holcombe won’t hear a bad word spoken about Templeton or about any member of his family, if you know what I mean.’

      Alistair did. ‘You’re saying Templeton’s kindness to Holcombe is the reason Victoria Bretton is accepted in society.’

      ‘In part. Her immediate family are mindful of the proprieties, but her aunt and uncle are not and neither is she. She has gained a reputation for being blunt and there are those who predict she will suffer for it. In which case, having Holcombe on her side is a definite advantage. There’s not many who’ll gainsay a marquess.’

      Alistair stared into his empty glass. No, there weren’t. He’d dealt with his fair share of toad-eaters in his life and his father was only a viscount. There was even more grovelling the higher one climbed on the social ladder.

      But Victoria’s uncle wasn’t even on the social ladder. He and his wife had both acted upon the stage, and the fact he was rich or that he had bailed out a peer of the realm would make no difference. He would still be viewed as a mushroom at best and an actor at worst; both of which would serve as strikes against him and against members of his family. ‘Does Templeton move much in society?’ Alistair asked now.

      ‘To the extent he wishes. Beyond that, he doesn’t seem to care.’

      ‘What does he care about?’

      ‘His wife, his theatre, his brother and his niece. Everything else can go to hell as far as he’s concerned. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.’

      And Collins would know, Alistair reflected, given his current association with Signy Chermonde. ‘An interesting man.’

      ‘Eccentric, if you ask me,’ Collins said with a sniff. ‘But, when you’re that rich, you can afford to do as you please. Victoria Bretton, however, is another matter. The lady falls somewhere between the devil and the deep blue sea. Even her own sister keeps her at a distance.’

      Yes, Alistair had seen first-hand evidence of that. The lovely Winifred had all but curled her pretty little lip during her conversation with her sister, and if her mother was pushing her in George Compton’s direction, it was evident the family was determined to marry Victoria off to any man who expressed an interest.

      And yet the lady didn’t seem to care. She had walked around that room with her head held high, blissfully serene in the face of all those hostile stares. She was the one who had drawn his attention to the way people were looking at her and to the effect it could have on his reputation.

      What did that mean? That the lady truly was impervious to the snubs and the remarks people were making about her? Or that she was simply a better actress than the celebrated Signy Chermonde could ever hope to be?

      It was Victoria’s habit to write early in the morning, usually long before the rest of the family were out of bed. Her mind was clearest at that time of day, and it was during those pre-dawn hours that she did her best work. But when on the morning following the Holcombe’s soirée, the words did not flow freely, Victoria did not immediately put it down to anything that had taken place at the soirée.

      While it was true the memory of her conversation with Alistair Devlin had kept her awake long into the night, she couldn’t believe it was the reason she was feeling creatively stifled this morning. That kind of reaction usually came about as a result of her emotions being tied up in knots, and given that she and Alistair had spoken on only two prior occasions, the chance of having developed any kind of feelings for him was highly unlikely.

      Yes, he was charming, and there was no question he was intelligent, but while those were qualities she would always admire in a man, Victoria wasn’t looking for them in Alistair Devlin.

      She shouldn’t even be thinking about the man. Her uncle had made it very plain that she would end up nursing a broken heart for her trouble because Alistair’s position in society, and his father’s antipathy towards the theatre, would always preclude them from having a relationship.

      Then why did she keep thinking about him? And why, if he wasn’t interested in her, had he sought her out and spoken to her at the theatre?

      That was the question plaguing Victoria as she trotted her mare along Rotten Row an hour later. She had given up on the idea of writing and had asked for her mare to be saddled and brought round, hoping that a change of scenery would be good for her. But even though her groom rode far enough behind so as not to disturb her concentration, her mind remained stubbornly and most disappointingly blank. No clever ideas leapt to mind, and while she was reluctant to put a name to the cause, Victoria had a sinking feeling it was all because of—

      ‘Miss Bretton,’ came an all-too-familiar voice. ‘What a surprise. I’d not thought to see you out so early in the day.’

      Victoria looked up—and instinctively her hands tightened on the reins. ‘Mr Devlin.’ The last person she’d needed—or wanted—to see. ‘I cannot think why. I did not stay late at the Holcombes’ soirée.’

      ‘No, but most ladies do not care to ride in the Park at a time of day when society is not around to admire them.’

      ‘Ah, but I ride for pleasure. Not to be stared at by those who opinions matter not in the least.’

      ‘Yet, anyone who sees you cannot help but be impressed by your beauty.’

      Unexpectedly, his boldness made her laugh. ‘It is a little early in the day for such excessive flattery, Mr Devlin,’ she said, flicking a glance at the lady at his side, who wore a striking burgundy habit and was riding a pretty dapple-grey mare. ‘Are you not going to introduce me to your companion?’

      ‘But of course. Miss Victoria Bretton, may I present my cousin, Miss Isabelle Wright.’

      Victoria started. His cousin?

      ‘How do you do, Miss Bretton,’ the lady said in a bright, youthful voice. ‘What a pleasure to finally meet you. I was introduced to your sister at the Roehamptons’ reception a few weeks ago and thought her ever so nice. Your aunt and uncle were there as well.’

      Not having been at the reception, Victoria assumed Miss Wright was referring to her mother’s brother and wife who lived in Edinburgh. ‘I wasn’t aware Aunt and Uncle Taitley were in London.’

      ‘Oh, no, not that aunt and uncle. I meant the ones involved with the Gryphon Theatre. They are related to you, aren’t they?’ Miss Wright said. ‘Mr and Mrs Templeton?’

      Astonished that a cousin of Alistair Devlin’s would be familiar with the owner of any theatre, let alone the Gryphon, Victoria said carefully, ‘Yes, they are.’

      ‘I thought so. I was terribly pleased to meet them. I truly believe your uncle stages some of the finest productions in London.’

      ‘Why don’t you tell Miss Bretton the name of your favourite play, Isabelle?’ Alistair said with a smile.

      The girl laughed. ‘I don’t suppose it’s all that surprising. A Lady’s Choice, by Valentine Lawe. Cousin Alistair tells me you’ve seen it too, Miss Bretton.’

      ‘Yes, I have.’

      ‘Did you not think it brilliant?’

      ‘Well, I’m really not sure—’

      ‘Oh, but you must, because Valentine Lawe is the most talented playwright in all London. Surely we can agree on that?’

      Somewhat nonplussed, Victoria took a moment to straighten her mare’s reins. How bizarre. She had never been asked a question about Valentine Lawe before, so really had no idea how to answer it. ‘I suppose I would have to say that he is … quite good.’

      ‘Quite good? My dear Miss Bretton, he is exceptional!’ Miss Wright exclaimed. ‘I’ve seen all of his plays: A Winter’s Escapade, Genevieve, Penelope’s Swain. But I think A Lady’s Choice is definitely

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