He made a half-bow and held out his card. I felt my knees dip as I bobbed, unwillingly, into a curtsey to this man who moments ago had scolded me. There was something about the way he stood, his presence, that demanded deference. The card was printed on stiff white paper with rounded edges. I peered at it but folded my hands behind my back so I couldn’t take it from him.

‘It says you’re the proprietor of Winters the Grocer’s.’

He nodded and smiled but I looked away again. I’d never known a Black like this. The ex-slaves, I had the measure of them, but this Lucien Winters was something different altogether. This Lucien wore scent; there was a smell of cedar about him or maybe it was danger. I took a step back and then another until I felt the wall against my spine. Come on, Zillah, you can handle him.

‘Where are you from?’ he said.

‘Up the road from here.’ I never mentioned St Giles if I could help it. People would assume I was a Blackbird – one of the Black criminals that had made the slums their home.

‘Where are you really from, originally?’

‘Out west,’ I said, not willing to name Mayfair where I’d been born, but we both knew it was not what he meant. When he spoke again there was the warmth of teasing in his tone.

‘Your mother and father, then; where are they from?’ He clearly wasn’t going to give up and though I usually hated it when people asked me this, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.

‘My mother was from Barbados. But I was born free.’

Once more, I saw pity forming in his eyes. ‘I am free,’ I repeated. I wanted him to know it; it was what made me different.

‘Mark me, Zillah,’ he said. ‘I want you to think about tonight. About the part you play.’ He held up a hand when I would’ve interrupted him. ‘When you have thought on it, I want you to come to the address that is printed on my card. If you come to me, I will save you.’

He laughed when I shook my head. The cheek of it. He was acting like I was some damsel in distress. Hadn’t he seen my name on the bills outside the theatre and the crowds who came for me? Of course, I was being courted by a viscount too, but something told me he wouldn’t be impressed by that.

‘I’m sure you’ll remember the address,’ he said, but still he tucked the card into the front pocket of my coat, his hand briefly connecting with the top of my thigh through the layers of material.

Smug bastard. But – Winters the Grocer’s, 41 Charles II Street. It was already burnt into my brain. Before I could say more, there was the sound of footsteps outside the back door.