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More than tea. More than Lewis Commodes. More than . . . more than anything or anyone in the world.

Three weeks had passed since their first shared breakfast. Thankfully, no hint of scandal had leaked from the hotel; Germain’s boasts regarding their guests’ privacy appeared to be accurate.

This evening Jake would escort her to a midnight soirée, a newly fashionable entertainment. Merry would come as well, chaperoning Lady Lydia, which was something of a jest as Merry was such a wild spirit. But she was married, and she was a duchess . . .

Cleo nibbled a light supper while Gussie wound her curls into a knot high on her head, weaving ribbons sewn with jet beads throughout. Her gown for the night was deep purple with a low bodice and sleeves that didn’t begin until halfway to her elbow.

“You must remember all the details of Lady Yasmin’s ensemble,” Gussie ordered. “Martha says as how her gowns all come from Paris, and the designs can’t be found anywhere, for love or money. There’s a French magazine that Martha just found, Galeries des . . . something, but Lady Yasmin’s gowns are a step above.”

“I’ll remember,” Cleo said. She finished a ham croquette.

“You’ve got your appetite back,” Gussie said, sticking in a few last pins for good measure. She winked at Cleo in the glass. “Not the French chef who’s responsible for it either.”

“His cooking is quite good,” Cleo said, avoiding the subject.

Life with her mother had been tempestuous, driven by Julia’s passions and her energy. At the same time, Cleo always knew what they were doing next, because Julia was dependably erratic. Her mother would visit a new theater, fall in love, start an affaire. There were variations on the theme—Julia might discard Hamlet and choose Macbeth—but life had regularity.

Now every day was all new.

What was she doing? She wasn’t stupid. Or naïve. Every kipper, every posy (all with the same message), every smile, every waltz, every shared kiss drew them closer.

“Perhaps tonight’s the night,” Gussie said, wading into the unspoken subject.

Cleo scowled at her. For a second, she waited for her mother to chime in on the possibility of a proposal, but Julia was silent.

“Mr. Addison is going to ask you to marry him, you know he is,” her dresser said impudently. “We’re all just waiting for the moment when you come back from one of these evenings with a sparkler on your finger.”

Gussie’s face was alive with excitement. She knew something. Perhaps about a ring, given that she and Jake’s valet spent hours together downstairs, washing, sponging, and ironing garments. “Do you want to know a secret?” she asked.

“No,” Cleo said quickly.

“It’s an opal,” Gussie whispered, unable to contain herself. “He bought it here in London. It used to be in Mr. Addison’s bedside table, but it’s gone. It must be in his pocket because Mr. Moggly hasn’t seen it lately! Mr. Addison is waiting for the right moment.” She heaved a sigh. “Just like that last scene in Love Conquers All, when the prince offers the dairymaid a diamond.”

Cleo’s heart skipped a beat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t want to know.”

“Are you certain? Forewarned is forearmed, or so my da used to say.”

Cleo shook her head. Every day, she felt a growing sense of certainty, a kind of delicious trust.

But she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t quite there.

Her father’s silent, dogged faithfulness to her mother had been a daily lesson in the importance of marital choices. Her mother had not mourned his death; she was back at the theater a few days later. She hadn’t been cruel: it simply wasn’t in her.

Julia had moved from man to man, the one who was in front of her at any given moment being the most important. If there was anything that Cleo wanted to avoid, it was that.

But Jake showed no potential for disloyalty. He appeared every morning, arriving before his flowers, but with the same sentiment in hand. To him, she was more important than kippers.

It wasn’t a romantic statement, but the hardheaded businesswoman in Cleo adored it. Her mother would coo over a man’s chiseled features and forget about him by breakfast the next morning.

Men don’t forget about kippers. At least, not men who love fish as much as Jake did.

“I’ll be taking myself off downstairs,” Gussie said, after a last look. “Your gloves are on the table, along with the furred pelisse, as it’s a chilly evening.”

Cleo glanced over. “No fan?”

“You don’t need to protect yourself, not with him,” Gussie said. “No one would dare to attack Mr. Addison. He’s that large and anyone can tell he’s dangerous.”

Famous last words, as it turned out.