Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman. Julia Justiss

he certainly did not mean to confess it, his sojourns in the city had usually been spent in diversions not normally mentioned in the company of ladies. Rapidly he scanned his memory for a list of activities suitable for a gently born female.

      ‘There’s the theatre—Covent Garden, which features the fabulous Mr Kean in Shakespearean roles, and the Theatre Royal at Haymarket, where the social activity in the boxes and among the crowds on the floor is often as entertaining as the action upon the stage.’

      ‘Yes, Grandmama particularly enjoyed the theatre! My sponsor keeps a box at Covent Garden, and I am most anxious to visit. What else?’

      ‘There’s Astley’s Amphitheatre for equestrian displays. The Tower, where for a small tip the Guard will give you a tour and show you the places where the ghosts of Henry VIII’s poor headless Queens, Catherine and Anne, are said to roam. Hatchard’s bookstore, if you are of a literary mind. Gunter’s for ices, and, of course, shops selling everything you could imagine.’

      ‘Yes, Mama intended that we go to town early to begin acquiring a wardrobe, as she insisted nothing country-made would do. Oh, the evenings we spent, poring over fashion plates while Mama and Grandmama described the wonders of Bond Street and Piccadilly! Modistes, cloth-drapers, bonnet-makers, cobblers offering slippers soft as a glove, gloves in every colour of the rainbow.’ Shaking her head, she said, ‘Now you will be thinking me the most frivolous individual!’

      ‘Fashion, frivolous?’ he replied with a grin. ‘Indeed not, Miss Neville. ‘Tis practically the stuff of life in London. There’s great artistry in the making of apparel that shows both the beauty of the material and the wearer to best advantage. It’s said Beau Brummell went through an entire stack of neckcloths before getting his cravat tied to perfection and had a standing order for champagne, just to add to his valet’s secret formula for blacking his boots.’

      ‘I am so looking forward to it all. And to renewing my relationship with Lady Parnell, Mama’s best friend, with whom we were to stay that first year and who will be my sponsor now.’

      Surprise tinged with dismay banished Greville’s amusement. Lady Parnell, one of the doyennes of society, was said to have more influence than all the patronesses of Almack’s combined.

      No need to fear that Miss Neville would fall victim to the petty cruelty of jealous schemers. No one who had any aspirations to society would be foolish enough to openly criticise the ward of so socially powerful a personage.

      ‘If Lady Parnell is to introduce you, your success is assured.’

      ‘Are you acquainted with her? She’s my godmother, as well as Mama’s best friend.’

      ‘I’ve not had that honour.’ Greville did not feel it necessary to add that this was hardly surprising, since the females whose company he’d normally sought while in the metropolis had been about as opposite as one could get from the virginal blossoms of society and the Grand Dames who sheltered them. ‘I did know her nephew at Cambridge.’

      Of all the matrons in the city, it would have to be Lady Parnell, he thought with rueful chagrin. If he were still clinging to any foolish thought of attempting a friendship, the identity of Miss Neville’s sponsor ought to sound its death knell.

      Not only was the lady wealthy, influential and needle-witted—and thus liable to allow only the wealthiest and most eligible gentleman to associate with her ward—she also had a keen awareness of everything that went on in London. He couldn’t rule out the possibility she might even know about some of the questionable activities in which he’d participated with her nephew.

      Time to stop indulging in—and tantalising himself with—Miss Neville’s company before he grew too fond of it. What better way than to remind them both of his present position?