by Jane Feather
Constance considered for only an instant. She could handle Max Ensor and he wouldn't even know he was being handled. A three-day country weekend would give her plenty of time to work upon him. By Monday she'd have him wearing the colors of the WSPU.
She bit back the chuckle that bubbled in her throat and said warmly, “Oh, I do so hope you can join us. I know it's short notice but we would all enjoy your company.” She turned to her sisters for confirmation and they both acquiesced with the same enthusiasm.
They sounded convincing, but Max nevertheless felt a certain wariness. He could not, however, identify its cause, so he said simply, “Thank you. I should love to.”
“Good, then we'll talk about it over dinner. You do play tennis?”
“Indifferently.”
Constance regarded him through narrowed eyes. “False modesty, Mr. Ensor,” she accused.
He laughed. “I'm not coxcomb enough to praise my game when I don't know the standard of the competition.” He turned as Jenkins announced the arrival of the hackney. “Shall we go, Miss Duncan?” He offered her his arm.
“Enjoy yourselves,” Chastity said.
“We'll see you in the country at the weekend, Mr. Ensor,” Prudence called after them.
“You don't keep a carriage in town?” Constance inquired as he handed her into the cab.
“I have a motor,” he said. “But I don't drive it in town.”
“A motor, how dashing.” Constance was genuinely impressed. “I've never ridden in one.”
“Perhaps you'd allow me to drive you down to the country at the weekend.”
Constance made no immediate response and he looked at her expectantly. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, not at all.” She sighed. “It's a little awkward.”
He waited for her to explain and when she didn't, he let the subject drop.
Chapter 6
The hackney drew up outside the restaurant and Max escorted her inside, handing their cloaks to an attendant. They followed the maître d'hôtel up the wide flight of gilded stairs and were seated in a quiet alcove, from where Constance had an excellent view of the dining room and its occupants.
Max ordered champagne and opened his menu. He regarded his companion quizzically. “Do you like oysters, Miss Duncan? I see they have Breton oysters tonight.”
“I do,” Constance said. “But I'm not sure I feel like them this evening.”
“Ah, then perhaps the quail eggs in aspic,” he murmured, almost to himself. “And then the turbot in hollandaise, followed by the pigeon breast aux truffes.” He looked up with an air of decision.
Constance laced her fingers. If there was one thing she detested it was a man presuming to order for her. And this man barely knew her. She opened her own menu, glancing up with a smile as the waiter poured champagne into her glass. “You make up your mind quickly, Mr. Ensor,” she said. “I for one like to linger over the menu. It always takes me at least fifteen minutes to decide what I want to eat.”
Max heard the tincture of acid in her voice and hid his chagrin. He was accustomed to women allowing him to make choices for them; indeed, it had always been an infallible arrow in his seduction armory. Now it seemed if he was to preserve his dignity he had to pretend it was his own selection. He particularly detested turbot, was not overly fond of pigeon, and had been looking forward to the saddle of lamb, for which the Café Royal was justly famed.
He turned his attention to the wine list, determined that there she should have no input.
Constance sipped her champagne and watched him. “I always think a Sancerre goes well with turbot,” she suggested. “And then a good burgundy with the pigeon, to bring out the truffles.”
Max closed the leather-bound volume. He took up his champagne glass. “Perhaps, Miss Duncan, when you can tell me what you intend to eat, I can make some more informed choices.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, turning her attention back to the menu. There was an undeniable sparkle in her eyes, a distinct rosy tinge to her cheeks.
Max turned his champagne glass around between his long fingers. She was radiating smug satisfaction at having bested him. Should he yield the point? Disarm her with a frank apology for being overbearing? Or simply ignore her complacency and eat his turbot and pigeon even if they stuck in his craw?
The former, he decided. It would catch her off guard and he had the feeling that if he was going to get anywhere with Constance Duncan he needed to keep the advantage of the unexpected. He laughed ruefully. “I hate turbot,” he said. “And I'm going to have the saddle of lamb.”
She looked up, surprise clear in her eyes, and then she laughed with him. A warm, open chuckle that for once seemed to carry no underlying mockery. “I didn't mean to snub you.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, forgive me. It was very rude when I'm sure you were only being kind.”
“Kind,” he exclaimed in disgust. “I was not. I was being charming.”
“Oh,” she said. “Was that what it was? It always surprises me that men seem to think women find it appealing to have their decisions made for them.”
“You are an unusual member of your sex,” he said dryly.
“Perhaps not as unusual as you think,” she responded. “I think there are probably quite a few of us around.”
“Let us call a truce, Miss Duncan.” He stretched a hand across the table.
Constance could see no reason to refuse the offer. At least for the duration of the evening. She shook his hand in a businesslike fashion. “Let us also dispense with formalities, Max. My name is Constance.”
“Constance,” he said, holding her hand for a moment longer than a simple handshake warranted.
She became aware of a sensation in her fingertips akin to pins and needles and caught herself contemplating his hands, thinking that she liked them, had liked them from the first moment of their acquaintance. Firmly she took back her own hand, dismissing the irrelevant and distracting reflection.
“What are you going to eat?” he asked into the moment of silence that threatened to become awkward.
“The lamb,” she said. “Smoked salmon, lobster soufflé, and the lamb.”
He nodded gravely and returned to the wine list. “Sancerre, you think?”
She raised her hands, palms towards him. “Please, I would not presume to guide my host.”
“Oh, wouldn't you just?” He grinned and his vivid blue eyes crinkled at the corners. It gave him an almost boyish air and Constance was once more surprised. She was willing to acknowledge that he was an attractive man, but until now she had not found his appearance particularly appealing. Perhaps she hadn't given it a chance.
Another distracting thought. She sat back and allowed her gaze to roam around the dining room while he talked with the sommelier.
Constance was aware that they were drawing some interested glances. A new tidbit for the gossipmongers. It occurred to her that she could write a little squib for the next edition describing the dinner enjoyed by Max Ensor and Miss Duncan. An involuntary choke of laughter escaped her and Max turned back from the sommelier.
“Something amusing?”
“Oh, just a stray thought,” she said carelessly, waving her fingertips at an acquaintance across the room.
Max proved a deft conversationalist and Constance was content to follow his lead as he discussed Bernard Shaw's latest play, Man and Superman, the recent death of the artist Camille Pissarro, and the design for the new Liverpool Cathedral. The range of subjects that seemed to interest him struck her as unusual. The depths of his interests went way beyond the ordinary social demands of skillful small talk.
“Let me guess,” he said, as the waiter removed their plates with the remnants of saddle of lamb. “You're a cheese-before-dessert person.”
“You're close but not quite close enough,” she said, regarding him over the rim of her wineglass.
“Ah.” He nodded his comprehension. “Cheese, no dessert.”
“On the nose.”
“Well, I can see the virtue, but I can't resist the crème brûlée here.”
“My sister Chastity would tell you that the napoleon is the best in town. She is something of an expert.”
“It's unusual to find a woman who has no sweet tooth,” he observed.
Constance raised an eyebrow. “Another stereotype, Max?”
“An observation from experience,” he retorted.
Constance turned in her chair towards the cheese trolley. It was her turn to be placatory, she decided. “As it happens, I think it is unusual. I inherit the lack from my mother . . . Some of the Epoisses, please.” She pointed to a round cheese that was in the process of fleeing its board. “And a little of the Bleu d'Auvergne.”
“A glass of port?” suggested Max, as he pointed to the wheel of Stilton. “In lieu of dessert.”
“Lovely.” An involuntary little sigh of pleasure escaped her as the waiter snipped off a bunch of green grapes and laid them on the plate beside her cheese. “Port, cheese, and grapes . . . a ménage à trois made in heaven. Who could possibly want cake when one can have that?”
Max consulted once more with the sommelier and then leaned his elbows on the table, his hands loosely clasped. “So, will you permit me to drive you to the country on Friday?”
Constance shook her head. “No, I'm afraid I can't.”
He looked disconcerted. “I'm a very safe driver, I assure you.”
“I don't doubt it.” She considered for a minute, then said in the low tone of one sharing a confidence, “My father, however, is not. His eyesight is not what it was but he's dead set on getting a motorcar. We're doing everything in our power to dissuade him, and if he sees me merrily aboard one our arguments are going to look somewhat hypocritical.”
“Oh, I see.” He nodded. “He could have a chauffeur.”
“Yes, but he'd say that would be pointless—a case of keeping a dog and barking oneself. Besides, Cobham, our coachman, has already said he couldn't get used to these newfangled machines and he's been with us far too long to be put out to grass . . . to use his own expression.” She shrugged and gave him a what-can-one-do? smile.
“Awkward,” Max agreed. “Perhaps I should take the train myself.”
“I hardly think such a sacrifice is necessary.”
“Perhaps I'd choose to make it,” he said, taking the scent of his port. He nodded at her glass. “Tell me if you approve.”
Constance did so. “Why would you choose to forgo your drive? I hear it's very exhilarating,” she added, unable to hide a wistful note.
“It is. But I would readily exchange it for your company on the train.”
Did he really think she was so naïve as to be disarmed by such a piece of naked flattery? “You are a very smooth talker, Mr. Ensor,” she observed, disappointed by such an unsubtle approach, although she supposed that a man who saw women in terms of generalizations would probably see nothing wrong with tried-and-true seduction maneuvers, however hackneyed.
“That implies insincerity, Miss Duncan,” he said as he cut into his Stilton.
“If the shoe fits,” she responded, then changed the subject before the exchange could become any sharper. “We usually take the noon train from Waterloo. It gets to Southampton at three, and connects with the branch line to Romsey, arriving at half-past. Someone will meet us with the trap.”
“May I take that as an invitation to meet you at Waterloo?” He sipped his port, determined to persevere even though Miss Constance Duncan was the most prickly dinner companion he'd ever encountered.
“Please do.” She raised her own glass and smiled at him across the ruby contents. Antagonism wasn't going to advance her cause at all and she could see how put out he was. She needed to blunt her tongue a little.
“I felt guilty this afternoon about what I'd said about your niece's governess,” she said, peeling a grape with her knife.
“Oh?” He was instantly alert. “Why so? What has Miss Westcott to do with you?”
Constance began to peel another grape. It gave her an excuse for not meeting his eye. “Nothing, of course. And that's why I feel bad about what I said at the Beekmans' soirée. I had no idea of the woman's situation when I presumed to pass judgment on her skills.”
“Since she's unaware of your lapse in judgment I think you can safely lay your guilt to rest,” he said aridly, still as sharply watchful as before. It seemed wise to assume that she had just delivered an opening salvo designed to distract him before the main attack.
Constance raised her eyes and gave him a disarming smile. “It's a little awkward. By apologizing for casting aspersions on the governess I am indirectly criticizing your sister.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I confess myself fascinated to know why you're digging yourself into this particular hole.” He had no faith in that disarming smile at all.
Constance met his steady gaze and dropped the pretence. “You were the one who defended the governess. I'm merely saying that after your sister's comments this afternoon I take your point.”
He pursed his lips slightly but asked only, “Coffee?”
“When you've had your crème brûlée.”
“I think the port has spoiled me for pudding.” He nodded to the ever-hovering waiter. “So you feel a mother should not concern herself with the political and social opinions of those in charge of her children?”
“I think she has no right to invade her employees' privacy,” Constance retorted. “If they keep their opinions private, then surely they are no one's business but their own. Is Miss Westcott able to stand up for herself?”
“Probably not,” Max said, his expression carefully neutral.
“How long has she been with your sister?”
“Oh, I believe she's lasted almost ten months,” he said. “At least six months longer than any of the others.”
Constance suspected that he was trying to provoke her with his light insouciance. She refused to be provoked. “Is she very young?” She poured coffee into two cups from the delicate china pot set reverently at her elbow. The waiter took one cup and placed it in front of Max.
“Well above the age of discretion,” Max said, taking a sugar lump from the bowl with silver tongs. “Why does she interest you so much?” He dropped the lump into his cup.
“She doesn't really,” Constance said.
He looked at her askance. “Oh? I was assuming that as a downtrodden member of the exploited female classes Miss Westcott held a most particular interest for you.”
Constance drank her coffee. “I won't deny that. My sisters and I were educated by a woman who felt very strongly about such issues.”
He leaned across the table, his gaze intent. “And you would deny that children are influenced by the views of those who are responsible for forming their minds?”
“No, of course I wouldn't. I never said any such thing. I simply said that a woman is entitled to keep her opinions private if she's made it clear she wishes to do so. Is there any evidence that this Miss Westcott has attempted to press her own political views on the six-year-old?”
“I doubt Pammy has the concentration span to take in anything so complex,” Max said. “Like most—” He broke off.
“Like most women,” she finished for him. “Was that what you were about to say?”
He sighed. “Must you put words into my mouth?”
“You've made your views quite clear.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I do not understand why women should need the vote. They wield a powerful influence on their menfolk at home. Why, I know more powerful women than men, I can tell you. Their husbands and brothers do exactly what they're told.”
Constance stared at him. “I can't believe you'd trot out that old saw,” she said in disgust. “Women are the power behind the throne. And even if I concede that some lucky women do have influence over the men who make decisions for them, what about all the women who have no such power? W
ho's going to make decisions that would improve their lives? Who's even interested in them?” She shook her head, her eyes glittering with angry conviction, her cheeks flushed.
Max toyed with the idea of commenting that she looked beautiful when she was angry but decided that he'd provoked her enough for one evening. He was fairly certain now that she was a card-carrying member of the WSPU and would serve his purposes very well. It was time to retreat, offer a sop, and plan the next step. If he played his cards right she would spill all the information he needed.
“Maybe the WSPU has some merit,” he said calmly. “But these women need to consider the far-reaching effects of such a social change. It must be considered from every angle.”
Constance's angry flush died down. She couldn't argue that point. When she spoke, it was as calmly as he. “But we need some assurances from the government that they would consider the issue.” The candle on the table flared in the breeze created by a waiter's coattails as he hurried past and Max saw golden light flash against the intent dark green of her eyes. He also heard the inadvertent we. She was showing her true colors.
“As I understand it, the issue is on the table in Cabinet,” he replied.
Constance examined his countenance and could read no dissembling there. Presumably he would know if he lunched regularly with the Prime Minister and the Cabinet. “That's something,” she said neutrally.
He inclined his head in acknowledgment and firmly closed the subject. “Would you like a cognac?”
“No, thank you. I need a clear head for tomorrow. But don't let me stop you.”
“I too need a clear head.” He caught the hovering waiter's eye and when he brought the bill asked him to summon a hackney. “Perhaps next time, if you'll do me the honor of dining with me again, we can take a drive in the motor. I could pick you up out of sight of Manchester Square and we could drive out along the river. There's a very pleasant spot near Windsor, good food, pretty view . . . ?”
“It sounds delightful,” Constance said in the same neutral tone. She gathered up her evening bag. “If you'll excuse me . . .”