A gratified smile passed betwixt the two other fellows.
“In that case, my friend,” said the duke, clapping a hand to Jack’s shoulder, “you are nothing like your father. Merely the produce of his loin discharge.”
Words were not the duke’s forte.
Jack stood, emotions a blur of turmoil. “I shall visit my little opera dancer,” he muttered.
“Not a good idea, Jack.”
But he shook off the restraining hand.
Millie would make everything better.
Jack dropped a few more coins than required into the flower girl’s threadbare gloves, and with his bunch of daisies clutched tight, he ambled down Drury Lane.
Passing The Lamb ale-house, he watched some scruffy lad filch the baker’s thirteenth bun whilst a dog ate the crumbs and across the street, a hawker held a string of emerald ribbons – damn him.
Aside the Theatre Royal, the lanes were an utter crush, dancers arriving for rehearsals and delivery carts jostling for space. Although he enjoyed bustle, everything appeared louder, brasher than he recalled or perhaps it was just that escaping it for a while had sharpened his senses.
Eagerness put speed to his heels and a swing to his cane. It felt an age since he’d seen delightful Millie, and as a rule he visited at least once a week.
“Jack, yer’re lookin’ as ’andsome as ever.” The melodious voice floated from the stage door.
“Ah, my fair lady, Alice. And how are you keeping?” A small ingénue of a girl twirled her immaculate pink silk parasol – must have a new protector after that miserly Lord Dockett.
“Well enough fer myself, but Millie ’as missed you somethin’ rotten.”
“And I’ve missed her. Room five?”
“Nah, stage manager ’as moved ’er to the basement. Door eleven.”
Jack’s brow beetled. “Tell that manager I want a word.”
A saucy wink from her, a tip of the hat from him, and he squeezed past.
Strolling the warren of corridors, he caught a glimpse of dancers rehearsing on stage, a scowling woman in black banging her stick for attention. Descending stairs into the bowels, a shrill voice failed to hit the top note whilst greasepaint and perfume stained the air.
Why wouldn’t Millie let him set her up in a pretty little town house with a small garden, white hyacinths and plenty of space. All this commotion couldn’t be good for one.
Door eleven loomed and he tapped it with his cane, but with no reply he twisted the handle and poked his head in.
“Millie, my sweet?”
Nothing, so he pootled forth. A small lantern on the dressing table cast its yellow glow over the windowless room revealing stockings cast willy-nilly upon the chaise and a poppy-red shawl he’d gifted her draped across the mirror.
Tamsyn would look stunning in such a–
He scythed the thought before it could grow. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come, his mood still pensive, but he’d sought to banish this cold emptiness inside, thought Millie might replace it with some warmth.
“Lawks, Jack! My lovely Jack!” And he smiled as snug arms enveloped him from behind.
Some of that emptiness ebbed. “I’ve missed you so, Millie.” And he twisted to give her a tight hug, gazed into her pretty eyes. “You appear tired, lovey. Working too hard, no doubt, and this room is hardly sufficient – ’tis a shoebox.” He handed over the posy of daisies. “Why won’t you let me buy you a town house?”
“Phooh.” She patted his cheek. “The girls need me here, you know that.” Millie turned and limped to the dressing table for a pitcher of water. “Beautiful flowers, Jack, yer such a darlin’. I thanks yer.”
Jack grumbled, parking himself on the stockings. “You can still come here every day, if you wish. I’ll buy you a carriage as well.”
She giggled and sat by him to pat his knee. “Yer are a one, Jack Winterbourne. I’m happy here. Now, how was Cornwall? Would I like it there? Sounds ever so romantic.”
