I had puzzled over the reason Donata wanted me to stay in the house of a predatory woman, but I thought I understood. Lady Breckenridge's first husband had practiced infidelity without shame, even bringing his mistresses into the Breckenridge household. Had Lord Breckenridge been here, he'd already have let Lady Southwick net him and then moved on to the other ladies of the party. I'd once witnessed Lord Breckenridge fondle another woman while his wife stood not a yard away.

Donata had professed not to care, but I'd seen the hurt in her eyes, the anger that had turned into acerbic humor and a cynical view of the world.

Lady Breckenridge wished to determine, before she married me, whether I'd do as Lord Breckenridge had done. I could not grow offended at her worry-Breckenridge had put Donata through a terrible time of it. If she needed to be certain that I would not do the same, then so be it.

"At least the food is not bad," I said. I pulled on the cheroot, following it with a deep drink of port. The port was rich and smooth, complimenting the dusky taste of the cheroot.

"Lady Southwick has a fine chef, yes, but he's temperamental. As long as he does not grow angry, we eat well. The moment he goes on a tear, we dine on hardtack and water."

"Continental, is he?"

"As English as the pair of us. Local born, son of a fisherman, happened to stow away on a boat to France and get an education in food." Trust Grenville to know the pedigree of every chef in England. "Luckily for us."

"What of Marianne?" I asked. Marianne Simmons, former actress at Drury Lane Theatre and once my upstairs neighbor, was now more or less openly Grenville's mistress.

I did not ask why Grenville hadn't brought her with him-Lady Southwick, for all her reputation for chasing gentlemen, was a lady of the aristocracy, who would hardly invite a stage actress turned courtesan to her gathering. If Marianne had been famous-another Sarah Siddons, say-leeway might be given, but Marianne had never risen higher than the chorus.