“What kind of man?” her brother countered innocently. “I told you, he’s a capital…oh, I suppose you mean because he’s of a lower class.” A rueful smile curved his lips. “Somehow it’s hard to hold that against him, especially when he’s so filthy rich. And it’s not as if you and I are actually members of the peerage. We’re just dangling on the lower branches of the tree, which means—”

“How can a butcher’s son be filthy rich?” Annabelle asked. “Unless the population of London is consuming far more beef and bacon than I’m currently aware of, there is only so much income that a butcher is able to garner.”

“I never said that he worked in his father’s shop,” Jeremy informed her in a superior tone. “I only said that I met him there. He’s an entrepreneur.”

“You mean a financial speculator?” Annabelle frowned. In a society that considered it vulgar ever to speak or think about mercantile concerns, there was nothing more ill-bred than a man who had made a career out of investing.

“A bit more than that,” her brother said. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter what he does, or how much he’s got, since he’s born of mere peasant stock.”

Hearing the criticism in her younger brother’s voice, Annabelle gave him a narrow-eyed glance. “You sound positively democratic, Jeremy,” she said dryly. “And you needn’t carry on as if I’m being snobbish—I would object if a duke tried to give us ticket money, just as I would with a professional man.”

“But not nearly as much,” Jeremy said, and laughed at her expression.

Simon Hunt’s return forestalled any further bickering. Surveying them with alert, coffee-colored eyes, he smiled slightly. “All taken care of. Shall we go in now?”

Annabelle moved forward jerkily in response to her brother’s discreet prodding. “Please do not feel obligated to accompany us, Mr. Hunt,” she said, knowing that she was being ungracious, but there was something about him that sent sparks of alarm chasing along her nerves. He did not strike her as a trustworthy man…in fact, for all his elegant clothes and polished appearance, he didn’t seem quite civilized. He was the kind of man that a well-bred woman would never want to be alone with. And her perception of him had nothing at all to do with social position—it was an innate awareness of a full-blooded physicality and a masculine temperament that was altogether alien to her. “I’m certain,” she continued uneasily, “that you’ll want to rejoin your companions.”

Her comment was met with a lazy shrug of broad shoulders. “In this crowd, I’d never find them.”

Annabelle could have argued by pointing out that as one of the tallest men in the audience, Hunt could probably locate his friends without difficulty. However, it was obvious that debating with him would be pointless. She would have to watch the panorama show with Simon Hunt at her side—she had no choice. As she saw Jeremy’s excitement, however, some of Annabelle’s wary resentment faded, and her voice softened as she spoke to Hunt again.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to sound sharp. It’s just that I don’t like to be obligated to strangers.”

Hunt shot her a perceptive glance that was disconcertingly thorough despite its briefness. “A sentiment I can easily understand,” he said, guiding her through the crowd. “However, there is no obligation in this case. And we’re not precisely strangers—your family has patronized my family’s business for years.”

They entered the large circular theater and stepped onto a massive roundabout sided with wrought-iron rails and gates. A meticulously crafted image of an ancient Roman landscape surrounded them, with a twelve-yard gap separating the edge of the roundabout from the painting. The gap was filled with complex machinery that drew excited comments from the crowd. Once the viewers had filled the roundabout, the room darkened dramatically, eliciting gasps of excitement and anticipation. With a soft whir of machinery, and a glow of blue light shining from the back of the canvas, the landscape acquired a dimension and a sense of realism that startled Annabelle. She could almost let herself be deceived into thinking that they were standing in Rome at midday. A few actors clad in togas and sandals appeared, while a narrator began to relate the history of ancient Rome.

The diorama was even more enthralling than Annabelle had hoped it would be. However, she wasn’t able to lose herself in the unfolding spectacle—she was too acutely aware of the man standing beside her. It hardly helped that he occasionally bent down to murmur some inappropriate comment in her ear, mockingly reproving her for displaying such unseemly interest in the sight of gentlemen dressed in pillow-cases. No matter how sternly Annabelle tried to hold back her amusement, a few reluctant giggles escaped, earning disapproving glances from people around them. And then, naturally, Hunt chided her for laughing during such an important lecture, which made her want to giggle all the more. Jeremy seemed too absorbed in the show to notice Hunt’s antics, craning his neck eagerly to discern which pieces of machinery were producing the wondrous effects.

Hunt quieted, however, after an unexpected hitch in the roundabout’s rotation caused the platform to jerk slightly. A few people were thrown off-balance, but were immediately steadied by the people around them. Surprised by the interrupted motion, Annabelle wobbled and found herself swiftly caught in a light, secure hold against Hunt’s chest. He released her the instant she had regained her balance, lowering his head to ask softly if she was all right.