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“Yes,” she agreed, remembering she too had once thought this a bar to masculine beauty. “But somehow in your case, it serves to add character. You might almost be too good-looking without it. The bridge of your nose has not been smushed in like Vinnie’s. Yours just has a bump—” She broke off her words, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I’m so sorry, you should not let me rattle on so—” she started with embarrassment.

“No, don’t apologize,” he cut her off swiftly. “I like it. Hearing you think aloud, I mean.”

“Really?” Theo asked doubtfully.

“Remind me who Vinnie is?” he asked as he gestured to the waiter. “Two more,” he said pointing to their glasses.

Theo, noticing he had finished his, hurriedly took another swig of her own. “He is one of the doormen at The Parthenon,” she explained.

“Ah yes, the one who escorts your sister about.”

“Yes,” Theo agreed automatically, though in truth she did not think Vincent squired Hetty about any more than he did her. “We still have not heard from her you know,” she added as the waiter plunked down another drink beside her. “Oh, thank you.”

Clem leaned forward in his seat, lowering his voice, “Did her fiancé have flourishing moustaches?” he asked gravely.

“Sir Matthew?” she asked, blinking before realization dawned. “Oh, no, he is neither a bigamist nor a swindler, I am sure. His father is a banker.”

“That’s good. Try one of these.” He nudged the platter toward her. “Angels on horseback.”

“Really?” Theo helped herself to one. “Thank you. These used to be my uncle’s favorite, but I never thought they would serve oysters wrapped in bacon at such a fancy establishment.”

Clem gave a murmur of agreement. “Oysters must be coming into fashion, more’s the pity. They’ll be stealing all our working-class treats.”

“Cockles and mussels?” Theo suggested.

“Eel pie and mash.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, and Theo laughed.

“Felix dearly loves eel pie,” she sighed.

“And have you tackled that particular recipe?” he asked lightly.

“I have not.” Theo shuddered. “Pastry is not for me. I think my blood runs too hot for I was reading an article upon the subject, and it said the best pastry chefs are naturally cold-blooded and that only cool hands should work the dough.”

“Is that so?” He reached across the table and took one of her hands in his. “Hmmm, you do have hot little hands,” he agreed thoughtfully. “For my part, I always prefer warm fingers to cold ones.”

Theo really could not say why she felt her cheeks growing red. “You do?” she asked faintly, almost wishing she had not removed her gloves. Her hand felt naked in his. She almost yelped when he gave her fingers a lazy squeeze.

“Oh yes,” he agreed huskily. “Don’t you Dora?”

Was he deliberately trying to fluster her? Maybe he was so incorrigible a flirt that it was just his habit around women? “Gloves help,” she managed to splutter out, before getting to grips with herself. What had she meant to quiz him about today? She tried to remember, giving herself a little shake.

She had realized only the night before that she knew precious little of his upbringing. Clem Dabney had made his money prizefighting. He had then invested in a supper and song outfit and had expanded this by investing in a set of concert rooms. This had done so well; he now wanted a theatre. That was it. The sum of all she had learned.

The realization had been a little disquieting. He had told her nothing of his family or origins. Was he even a native of London? His accent was not East End, though there was a slight inflection. There was certainly a touch of something rustic mixed in there, perhaps Lancashire or Yorkshire. Other times, she fancied there was a hint of something even further afield, such as a touch of Irish brogue.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Mr. Dabney?” she asked brightly. “Clem, I mean,” she corrected herself hastily and, to her annoyance, blushed again.

He released her hand with a show of reluctance. “A couple of half-brothers,” he admitted, “but we’re not in touch.”

Theo studied him in silence as she drained the last of her champagne cobbler. For all he was so pleasant and affable, he rarely let much information slip about himself. In fact, what had she learned about him in the past month?

He had two uncles, she suddenly remembered. He had told her that much. Were they paternal or maternal though? Why had she not pursued that topic? she wondered. It was not like her to monopolize a conversation by talking of herself. She rather thought it must be because Clem had skillfully steered her in other directions. “What about cousins?”

Clem sighed. “My family is … scattered. We are not good at keeping in touch.”

“You mentioned two uncles before I think,” she persisted doggedly.

“Did I?”