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Mary wasn’t fooled. She looked straight at Lavinia.

“What kind of forks would you be wanting? Certain folks are particular. Do you need separate forks for the onions, the swedes, the potatoes, and the beef?”

“Any forks will do excepting that one.” Neal gestured, grinning, and Lavinia squinted. A fire-blackened toasting fork hung over the hearth.

Mary laughed.

“You’re a good lad,” she said. Lavinia did snort at that. The slattern! She was simpering. Neal had changed for dinner, changed into a collared shirt and black jacket. She probably took him for a lord. Lavinia cast a critical eye over his person. Nothing objectionable in the tailoring. And it did offset his natural advantages. Absent the bulk of that ridiculous canvas coat with its overflowing pockets, his body looked long and lean. What a divine injustice—that he should have those eyelashes! If she were his sister, she’d scream with envy, Girton or no Girton. He wasn’t a pretty man, eyelashes aside. But his blunt face, with its large nose and square jaw, was undeniably attractive. This Mary seemed to think so. Her wrinkled face was tense with calculation. She was like that awful Mrs. Pickering who did Swedish exercises before every ball, the better to chase down bachelors for her daughters. Did Mary harbor designs on behalf of some great big galumphing girl out in the milk shed? Or was she just a sop for male attention? And Neal! He was shameless. Had he winked?

Drat it. She was not too missish to eat with her fingers. She gripped the greasy pasty in both hands and took a bite. Crust, thank God. She might have conceded defeat if a human finger or ossified rat tail slid out onto her skirts. She swallowed and raised her head. They were both looking at her. She gave Mary a bright smile.

“Heavenly,” she said again. “Like God himself came to Cornwall.”

Neal shook his head, laughing. Mary shook her head too, but she was muttering to herself.

“Never mind, then, Mary,” Neal called after her as she marched away, snatching up bottles. He was still laughing as he fell upon his own plate. He ate vigorously, devouring the first pasty, then the second. For a moment, Lavinia stared. When had she last seen someone take so much pleasure in a meal? Fashionable people were far more disinterested, far more languid at their tables. She never allowed herself more than a few mouthfuls of soup, a morsel of quail, a glass of champagne, a glass of madeira, perhaps an ice. She tried another bite of pasty. If it had been baked during the Interregnum, it had kept fairly well. Or maybe the Interregnum wasn’t as long ago as she thought. She’d know if she’d gone to Girton.

The pasty was, in fact, rather heavenly. The soft, flaky dough, the juicy meat. Corseted for a ball, she’d never dream of ingesting a particle of such heavy food. Tonight, in such a barbarous place, with such an uninhibited companion, she surrendered to her hunger. She ate quickly, washing down larger and larger bites with ale. She caught Neal looking his approval, that unordinary smile making her breath catch. She choked on pasty, swallowing yet more ale to dislodge the crumb, blushing furiously.

What was wrong with her? Handsome men were ubiquitous in the West End. Ballrooms came furnished with them. Their smiles never made her gasp. Only George had ever had that effect. The humiliations of this past year must have left her newly vulnerable. She’d been cut from every Society function. Received no invitations. Unless you counted the Duke of Cranbrook’s wedding. To which she would not have been invited if she wasn’t the bride.

The heat, the smoke, the alcohol—she could feel them going to her head. A rising giddiness. But wasn’t she always light-headed, empty-headed, a giddy girl, so different from Neal’s mother and sisters, from the legendary Mrs. Pendrake? What would it be like to have a head filled up with the names of plants and Chinese mountain ranges? She moved her head experimentally on her shoulders, imagining it. A widow. An intelligent widow. Free to board a train alone and meet a man and lodge with him at the edge of the world, or at least the edge of England. What were Muriel Pendrake’s intentions? What were Neal Traymayne’s?

He raised his ale, eyes meeting hers over the rim of the glass as he tipped his head back. She didn’t even know if he was a bachelor, a widower, a married man. Perhaps, though, Mrs. Pendrake knew. She couldn’t give herself away by asking the question directly. He started in on his third pasty.

“Are you . . .” She rubbed her fingertips against her palms, feeling the glide of the grease and the grit of the salt. “Have you been . . . lucky? You said, your imagination caught fire . . . have you found, for yourself . . .” Dear God, she must be delirious.

He chewed his pasty, then wiped his fingers on his napkin. For a moment, he looked at her. His nose and cheekbones were like crags interrupting the plane of his face. That bump on his nose, its crookedness, emphasized his unswerving gaze.

“Alas, no.” He tilted his head. “I’m a bachelor. I looked, but I looked in the wrong places. The most obvious mistake you can make as a plant hunter. You’d think I’d have known better.”

The giddiness spread. Her body tingled with new awareness. A bachelor. So this was to be a seduction. Suddenly, she stood on firmer ground. She knew a thing or two about seduction. She’d given her heart—more than her heart—to London’s most notorious seducer.

She could manage a seduction far more handily than she could manage the flora of Cornwall. Thank heavens. And to think she’d been worrying that he was serious about the botanizing!

Be careful, a voice inside her whispered. He’s likely serious about both. He might even think they’re the same thing.

“We all make mistakes,” she said, then lifted her glass and drained it. Had Mrs. Pendrake made a mistake when she failed to board that train to Bodmin Station? Had she missed her destiny? But Lavinia didn’t have time to spare tears on Mrs. Pendrake’s account. She doubted Mrs. Pendrake would have much use for them anyway.

Neal pushed his hair back from his forehead and a thick lock sprang back instantly. His hair tended toward disorder, was just long enough for its natural curl to make a show of its resistance to the comb. He needed pomade, vats of it. Probably he made his own pomade out of some viscous plant material and honey. Varnham’s Pomade. God save ladies and gentlemen from ambitious gardeners.

“Where did you find Mr. Pendrake? If you don’t mind my asking.”

It seemed that Neal and Mrs. Pendrake had not shared much in the way of confidences. An exchange of unscented, sober, intelligent letters about specimens. Good thing. Their restraint gave her freer rein for invention.

“Our fathers were friends.” She broke the corner off her second pasty and nibbled it. “I knew him from a child.” George would laugh if he could see her, playacting the part of an eccentric, plant-obsessed widow. He wouldn’t mind a bit if she cast him as that lucky unfortunate Mr. Pendrake.

“Did he always have a love of the outdoors?” Between those starry black lashes, Neal’s irises shone a warm brown. Something had gentled in his gaze.

She laughed. “No indeed. He loved clubs, theaters, gaming dens, public houses, gin palaces. I think he only saw the sun during horse races. A scapegrace you could call him. Ran up enormous debts. Got hauled in front of magistrates.”

Neal’s eyebrows shot up. “And you knew?”

“Everyone knew.” That and much more. George had been linked to all sorts of women. Actresses, singers. Demimondaines. A Polish countess. The Princess of Wales. She’d let him cajole her into discounting those particular stories.

Vinnie, he’d purr against her ear, against her lips. My Vinnie. Lies are always loudest. The truth is you and me. The truth is this.

“I loved him regardless,” she said. “We loved each other.”