“On the Thames. So it is,” I interrupted dryly. “And—to get back to the subject under discussion—the pink and white beauties of London are built to take the eye and ensnare the heart of roving Irishmen. Confess!”
“Or be forever shamed as recreant knight,” cried Aileen, her blue eyes bubbling with laughter.
Tony unbuckled his sword and offered it her. “If I yield ’tis not to numbers but to beauty. Is my confession to be in the general or the particular, Miss Macleod?”
“Oh, in the particular! ’Twill be the mair interesting.”
“Faith then, though it be high treason to say so of one lady before another, Tony Creagh’s scalp dangles at the belt of the most bewitching little charmer in Christendom.”
“Her name?”
“Mistress Antoinette Westerleigh, London’s reigning toast.”
Aileen clapped her hands in approving glee.
“And did you ever tell her?”
“A score of times. Faith, ’twas my rule to propose every second time I saw her and once in between.”