Mr Benson cleared his throat, her hand was released and they sat down as though nothing had happened. She had fin-alised a business arrangement—why did she feel almost as disorientated as she had when he kissed her?
‘I will amend the documents now.’ The attorney produced a travelling inkwell and pen and began to alter the documents before him. Maude sat silent while the nib scratched over the paper, occupying herself with removing her other glove and tucking them both into her reticule.
‘There.’ Mr Benson finished, pushed one set across the desk to each of them and handed his own pen to Maude. ‘If you will read them through and sign, then exchange copies.’
Maude Augusta Edith Templeton, Maude wrote in her strong flowing hand. It was not a ladylike signature, her governess had complained, trying vainly to make her produce something smaller and altogether less assertive. She initialled the other pages as she had been taught and handed them to Eden, taking his in return.
Eden Francesco Tancredi Hurst, it said in writing equally as black and considerably more forceful. Maude signed below it, the sudden image of a marriage register flashing through her mind. ‘Francesco Tancredi?’ she said before she remembered the rumour about his father. It must be true.
‘Augusta Edith?’ he retorted.
‘Great-aunts.’ He did not respond with any explanation of his two very Italian names.
‘I will call at the bank and arrange for the transfer of funds.’ Mr Benson was on his feet, pushing his papers together. ‘May I take you up, Lady Maude?’
‘Thank you, no. I have my carriage.’
He bowed over her hand before clapping on his hat. ‘My lady. Mr Hurst, I bid you good day.’
Eden stood while she sat down again. ‘Would you like to see around behind the scenes now?’
‘Yes, please. But first—’ But first she wanted to speak to him alone and there was the small matter of one attentive lady’s maid sitting like a watchdog in the corner. ‘I would love a cup of tea.’ Eden reached for the bell. ‘Anna can go and find that little maid—Millie, wasn’t it? Run along and ask Doggett at the stage door where to find her, Anna—and no gossiping with anyone else, mind.’
Trained obedience had the maid on her feet and halfway out of the door before she realised the conflict in her orders. ‘But, my lady, Lord Pangbourne said—’
‘And you are doing very well, Anna,’ Maude praised. ‘I will be sure to tell him so.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Beaming, she hurried out, closing the door behind her.
‘So, your father has set a watchdog to guard you? Not a very fierce one.’ He strolled round the desk and hitched one hip on the edge, looking down at her.
‘No, she is not, although she is very serious about it. I wanted to say thank you for Monday night.’
He did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘The counterfeit English gentleman?’
‘The perfectly genuine one,’ she retorted.
‘Oh, yes?’ He smiled down at her, the first time she had seen him really smile. His teeth were very white, very even and, like the rest of him, looked as though they would bite. Hard. ‘You expected the earring, or worse, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Maude admitted. ‘Actually, I rather like it, but it might have raised eyebrows.’
‘I will confess I was very tempted to go completely to the other extreme and give you my version of the old-school actor-manager.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ she asked, intrigued.
‘Because, upon reflection, I found I did not want to scan-dalise your father to the point where he forbade you to interfere with my theatre. You are my grit, remember? I expect us to produce pearls.’
He was being deliberately provocative. Interfere, indeed! She refused to rise to it, let alone react to being compared to a piece of grit. ‘Describe how you would have turned into the old-school actor-manager,’ she said instead.
‘A shirt with enough ruffles to make you a ballgown, very tight evening breeches and a wasp-waisted tail coat with exaggerated satin lapels.’ He sketched the clothes over his body with his hands. ‘I would have raided Madame’s dressing room for a large diamond ear drop and her curling tongs.’ He twirled a lock of shoulder-length hair between his fingers. ‘A touch of lamp black to line my eyes and the oil, of course.’
‘The oil?’
‘Olive oil. I would have oiled my hair and my skin. Your father would have thrown you over his shoulder and swept out of the theatre, believe me.’
‘I believe you,’ Maude said appreciatively. ‘I would like to see that look, one day. But oil?’
‘I will give you some. I import it for my own use. It hardly gets used for cooking here in England, although it should be—for both cooking and salads. But Madame bathes with it, treats her hair with it. It is excellent for dry skin in winter weather.’