Jane blushed at the attention as every head turned to her. She could see them recalculating her worth and now understanding why the Prince Regent had led such an unhandsome woman into dinner. Under the weight of their stares, her gaze fell to the table, taking refuge among the plate and crystal assembled there. Her relief when the Prince pulled her chair out and seated her could scarcely be imagined.

Accustomed as she was to the more retiring life on her father’s country estate, Jane had not looked for any honours when she married Mr. Vincent. The few months of their marriage had been filled with work and the joy of learning to shape their lives together. This commission had seemed honour enough when it had come, almost as if it were a wedding gift from the Prince Regent.

Around them, the footmen began bringing out the first course, a turtle soup. Jane was glad to have the activity distract attention from her. She took advantage of the respite to gather herself so that when the Prince Regent next addressed her, she was better prepared for conversation.

The initial topics were of such amicable and unforced weight as the weather, and if she thought it might snow on the morrow. She did not and said so.

This relieved his royal highness, as the press of carriages expected for the New Year’s Eve festivities would be immense. By the time the soup was cleared, Jane felt somewhat more at ease and was able to engage the Prince Regent in a conversation about music, a topic on which they shared some common ground.

‘You must allow that Rossini is far superior to the froth that Spohr is passing off as composition. It confounds me that the Italian fellow is not better known.’ The Prince Regent selected an oyster from the array of dishes the footman laid upon the table with the next course.

‘I have not had the privilege of hearing his music performed in earnest, so I am not a good judge, I am afraid.’

He huffed. ‘You only have to examine the page to see the difference between them. One’s music flows with the inevitability of a stream, the other staggers from theme to theme like a drunken beggar.’ He lifted his glass and nodded over it to the gentleman on her left. ‘Am I not right, Skiffy?’

On her left, Sir Lumley St. George Skeffington abandoned the conversation with his dinner partner to answer. ‘Of course you are right. When are you ever not? But what is it that you are right about this time?’

‘I suggest that Rossini is superior to Spohr.’

‘Oh.’ Sir Lumley waved his hand in dismissal. ‘I do not follow such things. Ask me about a tailor, and I might honour you with an opinion.’

The Prince Regent smiled, and glanced sidelong at Jane. ‘Then pray, tell me what you think of Monsieur Lecomte?’