Still, she was glad she’d come, had the experience of it so if anyone spoke of penny gaffs, she’d at least have an idea of what they might have seen. She was especially glad Mr. Sommersby had accompanied her.

When they stepped out of the theater, she spied a woman selling meat pies. “Oh, I’m famished. Would you like one?”

“You don’t know what’s in it.”

“Well, it’s a meat pie.”

“What sort of meat? Dog? Cat? Rat?”

“Honestly. Just because this is a poorer area of London does not mean the food suffers.” She stepped up to the cart. “A meat pie, please.”

“Make it two,” he grumbled, before handing over the required coins.

“It wasn’t my intention for you to pay for everything tonight.”

“It’s no hardship, Miss Trewlove.”

“That’s not the point. I don’t want to be beholden.”

“It’s the least I can do after inserting myself into your night.”

Not about to confess that she was glad he had, Fancy glanced around. The crowd who’d left the theater had dispersed, and those who’d been waiting for the next show had made their way inside. “We’ll sit on the steps, shall we?”

She didn’t wait for him but settled herself halfway up the stairway that led into the theater. He dropped down near her, his long legs stretching out before him. He wasn’t as near to her as he’d been in the cab, and she rather regretted that no portion of him was touching her. It had been quite lovely to brush up against him as they’d traversed through the streets.

“It’s surprisingly good,” he muttered.

“I noticed a queue earlier when we arrived. If you set up a stall outside a theater, you need to establish a reputation for dependable fare if you hope to have any success at all.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “Your brother teach you that?”

“No, I figured it out on my own, not to mention that it makes a great deal of sense. People don’t return if they’re dissatisfied with the results of a purchase.” She shrugged. “Well, around here they might return in order to introduce you to their fists.”

She bit into the tasty crust, laughing lightly as the thick filling dribbled down her chin. With her gloved hand, she wiped it away. So unladylike. But it was rather delicious.

When he didn’t respond, she looked over to find him studying her with a hunger in his eyes as though he wished to lick the broth from her skin—or perhaps she was merely projecting her own desires onto him.

“I have a linen in my pocket.” His voice sounded rough and raw.

“The one with my tears?”