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appeared he was interested in Aegyptian history, but he was polite about it and didn’t overwhelm me with detail, preferring to talk about the things all the tourists liked to see—camel races, or dervishes, or receptions at the Khedive’s palace in Cairo. I liked that about the man. He was sensitive to others, obviously. Since it was a virtue I would never claim for myself, I appreciate it in other people.
    Geography mixed with a little travelogue lasted throughout a first course that involved a seriously good Roquefort and cucumber mousse and a shrimp bisque, and wasn’t exhausted as a conversational gambit until around halfway through the venison course.
    “It lasted rather better than the Margaux, as it happens.” I shook the last few drops into Fairfax’s glass.
    The waiter rushed to the table when I held up the empty bottle, and a second bottle appeared like magic. It really was a very fine wine.
    “I believe we may have to fall back on the arts,” said Fairfax. He ran his tongue over his lips to get the last remnants of jus. He waited for a response, but I believe I had stopped breathing, and it took a moment for me to jerk myself back to reality. Fairfax’s mouth twitched again. He tended toward small smiles rather than uproarious mirth, but that mouth showed his amusement. It curved at precisely the right arc. “A new theater opens the day after tomorrow. The Wyndham. The Prince of Wales will attend the opening night.”
    “I saw something about it, yes. Somewhere on Charing Cross Road.” I took a deep breath and tried to look and sound as though the mere sight of a man licking at spiced wine jus hadn’t meant I couldn’t possibly rise from the table until my breathing evened out and various parts of me subsided into untroubled calm again. Theaters? I didn’t really care about theaters. Still, it might help with the calming process. “What’s the opening play? Are you going?”
    “No, I won’t be there. The play is Robertson’s David Garrick, a comedy based on the life of the famous actor from the last century.”
    “Right,” I said. Garrick. Good Lord. How in heaven’s name did they come up with such stuff?
    Fairfax let out a small choke of laughter. “Not a history enthusiast, then.”
    “No, but I’m fine with comedy.” We grinned at each other. “My turn. What about music? Opera aside, of course.”
    “Of course.” Fairfax narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips—which again interfered with my breathing a little—before nodding. “Lottie Collins.”
    What?
    I felt my jaw drop. But before I could respond, the waiter arrived to clear our plates. It gave me a moment to collect myself. Really, we Lancasters pride ourselves on our sangfroid, and I was letting the side down badly. I nodded to the waiter. “Thank you! Do tell Henri his venison lived up to the maître d’s recommendation. My compliments to him.”
    Fairfax smiled at the man. “And mine.” He slipped the waiter something that looked very like a folded pound note. “For Henri, with my thanks.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Fairfax. I’ll make sure he gets it.” The waiter flourished a menu. “Can I suggest the ananas à la condé ? Henri has been experimenting with roasting the pineapple with spices and has developed a new pomegranate syrup that goes well with it and the rice.”
    “Sounds wonderful. Agreed, Rafe?”
    Really, I should not have been as discomposed as I was by the use of my given name. I do hope I didn’t blush, but I can’t be sure because Fairfax’s—Edward’s—mouth did that curving thing again without quite breaking into a full smile. “Not quite what I had in mind for dessert,” I said quietly and grinned when his cheekbones reddened. “But it will do in the interval.” Pause. “Edward.”
    “For both of us, then. Thank you, William.” Fairfax dismissed the waiter with a nod. He wasn’t autocratic, exactly… indeed, he was genial and pleasant to the waiter, but he showed no hesitation in