Dispensing with the overly complimentary behaviour so preferred by his contemporaries, he merely bowed his head silently over her hand, giving her a leisurely grin, and holding her eyes for what felt like hours. He looked every inch the classic London gentleman – complete with a pristinely starched white shirt, elegantly tied neckcloth, and fine beaver hat clasped in hand – but when he smiled he revealed a rascally handsome face, like a charming pickpocket.
‘You must tell me of Dorsetshire,’ he was saying now as he seated himself gracefully beside her, holding her gaze – he did this, a lot, it seemed – ‘for I hear it is quite beautiful.’
‘It is,’ she was pleased enough to confirm, describing her home to him happily. He listened and asked questions （which should not, she knew, be such an outstanding proof of character, and yet it was, for there was not one other man amongst her admirers who had done so）。
‘And are you accepting, in Dorsetshire, of city persons like myself?’ he asked, eyes snagging hers yet again. ‘Or do you cast us all out for being terribly useless?’
She was being flirted with, she perceived. It was most enjoyable. ‘I rather think that would depend upon the person,’ she said archly. ‘Do you have any skills other than cravat-tying and gambling?’
He laughed. Mr Pemberton was announced by a scowling Sally – who was quite sick already of the extra work these gentlemen were causing – and Mr Stanfield relinquished his post reluctantly.
‘Will I see you at Almack’s this week?’ he asked her. Kitty hesitated. Almack’s Assembly Rooms was the most exclusive venue in the whole of London. Her father had even attended on occasion, she knew, and he had dubbed it – as it seemed every member of the ton also did – the marriage mart. Kitty knew its hallowed halls opened every Wednesday night, and that one could only attend with a voucher of invitation – but she had not yet got to the bottom of how exactly one was invited. Yet another thing that might have been different, had Mr Talbot’s family not seen fit to banish her parents so thoroughly.
‘Not this week,’ she answered evasively.
He nodded, but there was a slight hesitation in his eyes and Kitty cursed inwardly. It was a mark against her, she knew. As an unknown in society, an invitation to Almack’s would have assured Kitty’s suitors of her quality – the absence of a voucher would be noted.
‘But I shall be at the Sinclair ball,’ she added. He bowed his head over her hand.
‘Then I shall make sure to be there,’ he promised, smiling.
Kitty bade him farewell, and he left. She allowed herself, just this once, the indulgence of looking forward to seeing him again.
Miss Talbot had not expected to see Lord Radcliffe for the rest of the Season. In fact, Kitty hadn’t thought she would ever set eyes on the man again in her life. She was surprised then, to spot his tall figure loitering by the back of the Sinclairs ballroom later that week. How fortuitous – she made a beeline for him at once. After two further gentleman callers had enquired whether she could be found at Almack’s the next Wednesday, Kitty knew she must find out more about how one secured a voucher. Radcliffe would surely know.
She greeted him brightly, and he returned her greeting without enthusiasm. Still, Kitty persevered.
‘Who is it that issues the vouchers for Almack’s?’ she asked directly. He raised his eyes to the heavens, as if searching for patience.
‘Princess Esterházy, the Countess Lieven, Mrs Burrell, Lady Castlereagh, Lady Jersey, Lady Sefton and Lady Cowper,’ he listed, ticking them off on his fingers. ‘They meet each week to decide who shall be on the list – though I do not think much of your chances.’
‘Why is that?’ she demanded. ‘Is there something I ought to be doing differently?’
‘I believe,’ he said slowly, taking out his snuffbox at a glacial pace, ‘I very much believe … that my patience has run out, Miss Talbot. I will no longer permit you to treat me as a lending library – take yourself away, now.’
Kitty felt a spike of frustration. ‘Just this one last question!’ she insisted.
‘No,’ he said, calmly availing himself of some snuff. ‘Go away before I start shouting to the room that you are a blasted fortune-hunter.’
She scowled at him. ‘I must say,’ she said hotly. ‘If you had even an ounce of kindness, you would try a bit harder to be useful to me. Why, it would cost you nothing to help – to explain about Almack’s and just tell me who is who and suchlike. I do not think you very charitable, my lord.’