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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 lovely mouth. Was that why she was such a great actress?

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he commanded, as the food was brought and served. ‘Is Charron a French name?’

      ‘It was originally. My grandfather fled from France with his wife and son, during the Reign of Terror and never went back. My father looked upon himself as English and fought on England’s side in the war against Napoleon. He was killed on some secret mission, very early on. Even my mother did not know what it was.’ The lies she had told so many times tripped easily from her tongue as if she had come to believe them herself.

      ‘I am sorry if talking of it is painful,’ he said. ‘I should not have asked, but I thought there was something about you that was not usual for an actress…’

      ‘And you, I collect, must have met many.’

      He laughed. ‘A few, but none like you.’

      ‘Fustian!’

      ‘It is true. There is something about you that proclaims you a woman of breeding. Your grandfather would have been an aristocrat if he had to flee the Terror, and that accounts for it.’

      She smiled. Her mother had taught her well and Marianne Doubleday had completed her education. She could play the lady to perfection. But playing the lady was not what she wanted. What did she want? Seven years before she could have given the answer to that promptly enough, but now she was not so sure. Her life was good as it was. She was adored from across the footlights, should she not be satisfied with that?

      She could command a good wage, could afford to dress well, was the recipient of countless fripperies she could sell or wear, whichever she chose, and she had many friends among her fellow thespians who, contrary to popular belief, were not always at each other’s throats. She could flirt with the young men who besieged the stage door after each performance, go to supper with them and gently send them on their way without hurting their pride. So what had she been waiting for? This moment? This man?

      ‘Can you tell breeding on so short an acquaintance?’ she asked.

      ‘Of course. How did someone like you come to be an actress?’

      ‘My mother was run down by a speeding carriage when I was nine years old,’ she said. ‘I had no other relatives…’

      ‘What about your grandparents?’

      ‘My father’s parents both died some time before. They never got over the loss of their son, so my mother told me. I think my mother’s parents must have died too, for she never spoke of them. I was alone in the world.’

      ‘Oh, you poor, dear girl.’ His sympathy seemed truly genuine and she began to have the first feeling of unease for deceiving him.

      ‘What happened then?’

      The rest was easy. The rest was the truth, or very nearly. She told him she had been sent to an orphanage for the children of army officers, (she had long ago upgraded the orphanage to one specifically for officers’ orphans) where she stayed until she was old enough to work, but nothing at all about the Bulfords. That did not bear speaking about. ‘There you have my history in a nutshell,’ she said, laughing. ‘Now you must tell me yours.’

      ‘Oh, I have nothing at all interesting to report. I was born, I went to school, I became a man…’

      ‘And married?’ She was surprised that question had not crossed her mind until now.

      ‘No, not yet, but undoubtedly my father will have me shackled before much longer. I am his heir, you see. I have a half-brother, a bantling by the name of Freddie, who will, no doubt, carry on the family name if I do not have a son, but he is very young still. That is all there is to tell.’

      It was all he wanted to tell, she decided. ‘So you do not have to earn a living?’

      He laughed. He had an infectious laugh and she found herself smiling back at him. ‘If

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