‘I’ll think about it, thank you.’ Actually, it was quite a good idea, Meredith had to admit.

Back at the château, Ronnie and Nicky had departed and Jo had disappeared too.

‘Gone to see Margot,’ Sophie explained.

Jo stood outside the tiny new house, trying not to laugh. Fixed to its brand new Lego-like outdoor wall was a smart sign, newly painted in gold lettering: Domaine de St Savarin.

On the minute terrace at the back of their new house, with its distant river view, the duke and duchess were on their second bottle of rosé. The duke somehow seemed to have aged dramatically since their first meeting, yet he still managed to get to his feet and scuttle slowly, like an ancient but beautifully coloured beetle, towards the kitchen to fetch a third glass and a fresh bottle.

‘So, ma chère Joanna,’ enquired Margot archly as soon as he’d left, ‘how does your secret garden grow?’

‘Still rather barren,’ admitted Jo, then instantly regretted it. The last thing she wanted was Margot delving into her sex life. Or non-sex life. Anyway, she was supposed to be telling her not to wander round the château.

‘I hope you won’t mind me saying this,’ Margot began ominously, ‘but you need to do something about your style, my dear. You are . . .’ She paused, looking for a suitably damning expression. ‘So English!’ She surveyed Jo’s outfit. ‘I mean, look at this . . .’ She pulled the sleeve of Jo’s cardi, one of her favourites, in fawn from H&M. ‘What is this garment called?’

‘A cardigan,’ supplied Jo helpfully.

‘Even named after a disastrous soldier!’ Margot turned to her husband. ‘Was it not this imbecile of a general who led all those young men to their deaths in the Crimea?’

‘Yes, my dear,’ replied the duke as he tottered back. ‘The earl of Cardigan.’

‘Only the English would name a garment after such a man. Or wear it! Come, my dear, take it off.’

‘I don’t like showing my arms,’ protested Jo.

‘If a man’s interested in you, he will not notice your arms, will he, Louis?’

With a laugh, Jo removed her cardigan to reveal a lacy camisole.

‘Ah, c’est bien mieux, ça.’ The duke’s approval was obvious, if not entirely appropriate.

Jo remembered why she’d come and pulled the cardi back on. ‘Margot,’ she announced briskly, ‘we really need to have a word.’

‘I know, ma chère Joanna.’ Margot favoured her with a bewitching smile. ‘You have come to pull wings off me . . . no, that cannot be right . . .’

A sudden image of a beautiful butterfly, its glorious shades of purple, indigo and green, having its wings removed invaded Jo’s mind, and she shuddered. ‘I think you mean tear a strip off you,’ she offered.