“Miss Phoebe informs me that you are a writer, Mrs. Ewing,” Lucien said. She had washed the ink off her fingers before eating. They were beautiful hands—slender, with very, very long fingers.

Emily looked at her uninvited guest. What on earth was the man doing here? He was far too handsome to be a bachelor. Not that a bachelor would have any reason to visit the scandalous Thorpe sisters. She shrugged mentally. Well, if he was too much of a snob to associate with them, he wouldn’t be eating with them. “I write for a fashion magazine for ladies,” she said.

“La Belle Assemblée?” Lucien asked.

So there was the reason for Mr. Lucien Boch’s appearance at her table, Emily thought. He must be the owner of a rival magazine. She’d heard a rumor of a new magazine in the press. And the owner of a German fashion magazine had tried to lure her to his journal last year. Well, that explained it. There could be no other reason for a member of the French aristocracy to be seated at her table. She was aware of an odd twinge in her heart. It would have been nice if Mr. Boch’s admiring gaze was meant for her, not for her writing.

“I do write for La Belle Assemblée,” she said brusquely. “And I do not intend to write for anyone else in the near future.”

“Oh…of course,” Lucien murmured.

She would almost think that he was innocent. Except …

Except Lucien couldn’t think what to say next, so he queried further. “And what would cause you to write for someone else, madame? I mean, for some other magazine?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Emily rejoined sharply.

That seemed to end that train of conversation. Lucien sought about desperately for another topic. “Miss Thorpe, do you write for La Belle Assemblée as well?”

“No,” Phoebe’s aunt replied, cheerfully biting into a large apple. “I’m the reprobate in the family. I write for Etherege’s Portents, the men’s literary magazine, so called. I write all the fashion copy. If you don’t mind my saying so, Monsieur Boch, I am very partial to olive-green frock coats. And you are wearing a beautiful example.”

Lucien stared down at his coat in some bewilderment. “Thank you. You write for Etherege’s Portents?”

Louise chuckled. “Do you read my column? It is entitled ‘General Observations on Fashion.’ I sign it Edward Etherege,” she added kindly when Lucien looked blank.

“I’m afraid that I have not had the pleasure.”

Louise rolled her eyes. “Well, you may be overestimating my writing skills by referring to pleasure. Emily has a true eye for fashion, but I simply make up rubbish and print it up for any chuckleheads who care to read it.”