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the Savoy’s orchestra—”
    “Ach!” Margery broke in with a derisive snort. “Can barely hear them all they way in here. And what is that they’re playing? A dirge? Terrible stuff. Bound to give a fellow indigestion if he listens too long. Come on, ducks. Sing us a tune.”
    “Oh, yes, please,” Charlie begged.
    “I—”
    “Wouldn’t you like to hear Miss Eastlake sing?” Margery asked the group around them. At once, a chorus of yeses answered him. She was not vain enough to think any of them shared an honest desire to hear her sing. Politeness stirred their assent. What else could they do but agree?
    Still, it was rather nice that they sounded sincere and since she knew from past experience that Margery was not going to let it alone until she’d acquiesced, she might as well enjoy herself.
    “One song,” she warned.
    “One song it is,” he agreed and before she knew it, he’d clasped her around the waist and popped her atop the bar.

Her great-aunts would die of mortification if they saw her perched up here. Simply die.
    Luckily, mortification and Lucy had only a negligible acquaintance. She’d been in so many should-be mortifying situations throughout her childhood that if she had taken to fainting whenever anything embarrassing happened she would have spent the vast majority of her childhood insensate.
    She took a sip from the glass Margery handed her, inhaled deeply, and as the small circle of people about them hushed, began the sprightly, charming little tune that had first won her the notice of the London critics.
    “During the day I see your face is funny,
    Can’t call you handsome when it’s sunny,
    But by the moon’s much kinder light,
    Girls like me lack perfect sight . . .”
    And then she launched into the rousing chorus:
    “In the Moonlight, Charlie,
    You’re a dandy,
    Words like honey, lips like candy,
    You may not have a handsome vis
    But by gum, by moonlight, you’re swell to kiss!”
    It was a ridiculous song, but the tune was bright and catchy and so by the time she finished the last line, everyone around her was joining in to sing the chorus. When she’d finished, she performed a seated curtsey and slipped from the bar lightly to her feet only to be confronted by Charlie Cheddar’s rapt, round face.
    “That was wonderful,” he said. “Wonderful!”
    Good heavens, the boy didn’t actually think she’d been singing to him? Why, what a sweet kid!
    “Thank you.”
    “Do you think . . . That is, would you be so kind as to, well, give me your autograph?”
    “My
autograph
?” No one had ever asked her for her autograph before! “I’ve never—that is, I would be delighted, Mr. Cheddar.”
    “Charlie.”
    “Charlie. But I don’t have anything with which to write.”
    “No?” The young man looked crestfallen.
    “Now, now. You mustn’t disappoint your public, Lucy.” Margery, who’d been watching the little byplay with avuncular amusement, intervened. “I shall return anon with scribbling apparatus. Be patient!” Once more, he vanished into the crowd.
    Darling Margery, she thought, accepting the new glass of champagne the curly-haired youngster offered. She smiled at him over the rim. He beamed back.
    “Large crowd here tonight,” she said when it became clear that her young swain had used up his small store of conversation.
    “Yes,” Charlie replied eagerly before falling once again into worshipful, and silent, staring.
    “What sort of theatre do you like, Charlie?”
    “None.”
    “Oh.”
    She looked around, hoping Margery wouldn’t be too much longer. The American Bar had gotten even more crowded, every table now ringed with elegant ladies and gentlemen who’d stopped for a post-theatre cocktail.
    “You are even more beautiful in person than on your card.”
    Well, if a fellow were capable of only a few words, those were certainly worthy ones. She dimpled, causing his mouth to slam shut again and fiery red color to bloom in his apple-round