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“Well, there are plenty of chop houses round here. We can take our pick.”

She looked relieved. “That would be wonderful,” she admitted, and he realized Dora was not a champagne and filet mignon kind of girl.

“What do you usually have?”

“Roast pork with apple sauce,” she replied promptly.

“I know just the place.” He steered her to the left and they headed for the establishment of Chas. Daneworth & Sons, a place he knew also served good steaks.

They were soon ensconced in a booth in a dark corner of a busy eatery, with conversation buzzing all around them from the tables, interspersed with bursts of laughter.

“How’s this?” he asked once she was comfortable, hat and coat removed and seated opposite him.

“Wonderful,” she answered with a sigh. “Everything about it, the atmosphere, the noise, this cozy corner.” She tipped her head to one side, considering him.

“What is it?” Clem asked, surprised to see her look at him so intently.

“How good you are at calming me down,” she said slowly. “How did you cultivate such a soothing manner? Have you many maiden aunts?”

He laughed, an honest-to-goodness laugh at this. “No, I have not. Two uncles only.”

“How then are you so good at soothing nervous creatures? Do you keep cats?”

He grinned. “No. No pets allowed in my boarding house, I’m afraid. Mrs. O’Malley is a stickler for rules.”

“I expect she serves all your meals on time, though,” she commented with a catch in her voice.

“Maybe so,” he agreed, then added untruthfully, “but her gravy is often lumpy, and she serves artichokes with practically every meal.”

Theodora brightened a little more at these outrageous lies. “You do not care for artichokes?” she asked, then pondered, “I would not even know how to cook them.”

“You must never learn,” Clem said pulling a face and making her laugh. He wondered idly what other faults he could place on Mrs. O’Malley’s blameless shoulders. He would not scruple to malign his excellent landlady if it would bring a smile to Dora’s face.

She cupped her chin now, looking thoughtful. Suddenly, she asked, “What line of work were you in, before you were a stage manager?”

“Stage manager? Is that what I am?” he asked lightly. She looked up at him expectantly. “I already told you what I did before, Dora,” he reminded her.

“Well, yes, you did, but I thought you might have had a profession or two in between prizefighting and owning a concert room,” she clarified and then gave him a sideways smile. “I suppose it occurred to me that you might have flung the prizefighting thing in people’s faces for shock value.”

Clem’s eyebrows rose. “Is it so very shocking?” he asked, though he knew damn well that it was. He was surprised that Dora seemed fully aware of the fact though. Up to this point, she had seemed so sanguine about marrying an uncultured lout.

“At least as disreputable as acting on a stage,” she responded promptly, drawing a reluctant smile from him. “Do you know, I’ve never seen a prize fight,” she added musingly.

“You don’t say.” His answer was possibly a little too dry.

“I suppose by that remark you mean that the audience is predominantly male,” she said, apparently not taking offense.

“That would be one way of putting it.”

At this point, they were interrupted by a waiter setting down their drinks before them. Clem had beer and Dora had ordered a large dry sherry which she immediately took a gulp of. For some reason, the fact she had ordered a “large” had amused Clem.

“Good?” he asked.

“Delicious,” she affirmed, craning her neck to follow the waiter’s retreat.

“Have you seen someone?” Clem asked, following her gaze, but failing to see what had caught her eye.

“Yes,” she murmured, then blinked as though remembering present company and straightened up in her seat. “I mean, no. No one that I know. I just thought …”