“But why? What reason could she have for causing trouble between the two of us?” said Smythe, as they led the horses to the paddock. “She does not even know me.”

“Who is to say? She may have taken offence at your manner. Or else it had nothing to do with you at all. Perhaps she simply enjoys making Gresham jealous. Some women like to see men demonstrate their power, the more so if ‘tis done on their behalf. In any event, the rhyme or reason of it really does not matter. The potential consequences do, for they represent nothing but trouble. Stay away from these people, Tuck. As I said before, they are not like us. And we mean less to them than the dirt clods they crush beneath their boots.”

Smythe sighed. “I see the sense in what you say. You are right, of course. What possible interest could a lady such as that have in a lowly ostler?”

“Be of good cheer, Tuck. She was right in one respect at least; you are a handsome fellow, and this is London, after all, with opportunities at every corner. There shall be sweet young girls aplenty for you in good time. Just see to it that you are not incautious, and that you do not shoot your bolts at targets far beyond your reach.”

“I defer to your superior wisdom, Father Shakespeare,” Smythe said, with an elaborate, mocking bow.

Shakespeare threw a dirt clod at him.

An evening at the playhouse was not what Elizabeth had expected. However, she had not really been sure what to expect. A coach ride along the Strand? Supper or high tea at Gresham ’s home, or perhaps an outing in the park? The invitation had been mysteriously and frustratingly unspecific. Her mother had not been pleased about that, and she had been even less pleased about Elizabeth accepting it. Had it come from anyone else, there would have been no question about it, but Edwina Darcie knew how much her husband wanted this marriage to take place and, in his absence, had not been confident enough to stand upon her own authority.

She had found her daughter becoming much more willful of late and was not quite certain what to do about it. As a result, she had her own reasons for wanting the marriage to take place, and as soon as possible. Elizabeth was not a child anymore and her mother did not enjoy having another grown woman around the house to threaten, however indirectly, her domain. Aside from that, the social circles into which an alliance with the Gresham name would introduce them made her giddy with anticipation. Consequently, Elizabeth knew that her objections to the presumptive invitation were little more than posturing.

She, however, had her own reasons for accepting the invitation, and they had nothing at all to do with her regard for the proper way of doing things or for Mr. Anthony Gresham, for that matter. Indeed, he was falling lower in her estimation by the minute.

First, she thought, he sends a rather imperious invitation, on uncommonly short notice, which was both inconsiderate and rude in its presumption. Second, he had not even bothered to tell her where this assignation would take place, so that she could at least attempt to dress accordingly. As a result, she had chosen one of her best dresses, reasoning that it was better to be overdressed than underdressed for any occasion. And third, once she had arrived at the playhouse, he had not even bothered to meet her himself, instead sending a mere servant to escort her to his private box up in the galleries, where he waited like some potentate condescending to, grant a common petitioner an audience. Mr. Gresham certainly seemed to think rather highly of himself. Well, she labored under no illusions that she was going to change that. Nor did she care to. But she could certainly do something about how he thought of her.

She had already decided that she was going to flirt in Mr. Gresham’s presence with every man who caught her eye, but she had not yet even laid eyes upon her haughty host when she had started flirting with that handsome ostler who had so abruptly flung open the coach door and started shouting before he even knew who was within. Obviously, it had been a case of mistaken identity. But even so, that still said something about him, in that he did not hesitate to assert himself, and rather strongly, in the face of someone of superior social standing. It was, after all, clearly a gentleman’s coach. For that matter, there was every possibility that he had not been mistaken, and that it was Anthony Gresham against whom he held a grudge. How could he have known that it was not Gresham in the coach? There had been such fire in his eyes! In all honesty, she had to admit to herself that her exchange with him had not been part of her original plan.

Drummond had witnessed it, of course, and he would surely report it to his master, for that was no more than his duty, and so it was just as well. It had worked out exactly as if that was the way she’d planned it. Save that she hadn’t planned it and she hadn’t known that Drummond would be there to see it. She would not make excuses to herself. There was no denying that the young man had an effect upon her. She had flirted with him because she wanted to.

What was his name? Smythe-something. No, Something-Smythe. Symington Smythe. That was it! It sound so euphonious. He certainly was handsome. And those shoulders! He seemed well-spoken, too, not at all thick, coarse, and rough-mannered, like so many of these common louts who worked around the Theatre, with their incomprehensible burrs and brogues and slurring speech and nose-wiping and forelock-tugging gruntings. She had, of course, been to the Theatre many times before, since her father was one of the investors whose money had helped build it, but this was the first time she had ever seen this rather striking young man. He must have been newly employed. Pity he was just an ostler. There could be no question, really, of her becoming more intimately acquainted with anyone like that. Her parents would both throw fits. Which, it occurred to her, was a tantalizing idea in itself.

The ensign hoisted in the turret an hour before the start of each performance was fluttering in the cool, late afternoon breeze as they went through the gate, past all the groundlings who had already arrived long since to jostle for the best positions in the rush-strewn yard. The hawkers were selling their refreshments and the trumpets were blowing the three blasts of the fanfare, signaling that the play was about to start as they mounted the stairs up to the expensive private boxes in the upper gallery, which were all screened off on the sides, blocking off all views except the one directly to the front. And therein, the much-lauded Mr. Anthony Gresham awaited her.

Having already formed a rather low opinion of him, Elizabeth had somehow expected his appearance to live down to it. She had imagined that he would be fat and unattractive, and probably with pockmarked skin. Instead, she was surprised to find that he was quite good looking, in a roguish sort of way, with well-formed, strongly defined features, a good complexion, a neatly trimmed black beard, and a full head of dark hair that he took some trouble to keep well groomed. He was also younger than she had expected, in his early to mid-twenties, and appeared to be quite fit.

“Miss Darcie,” he said, rising to greet her. He bowed over her hand and brushed it with his lips. “How good of you to come on such short notice. ‘Twas dreadfully rude of me, I know, to present the invitation in such a fashion, but under the circumstances, quite unavoidable, I fear. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Taken aback a bit by his unexpected remarks and apparently sincere, apologetic tone, Elizabeth could think of nothing else to say or do but nod. He led her to her seat, which he had thoughtfully provided with several pillows, and offered to pour her some red wine. She accepted.