Without waiting for an answer, Héloise launched into a rapid description of the entire process, from first enquiry to last drinks at the reception. It was an impressive performance. She didn’t pause or stumble for a good fifteen minutes, but kept up the commentary like high-speed gunfire until she finally came to a halt with a brisk, ‘Any questions?’

‘I think she’s done this before,’ Jo murmured to Steph under her breath.

Héloise shot a look in Jo’s direction, as if one more slip and it would be the guillotine for her, and proceeded to tell them more about the unique advantages of a château wedding.

‘I am most impressed, madame,’ soothed Meredith. ‘Can the wedding party stay inside the château? I’m told that’s often part of the package these days.’

‘Hélas, non. We thought of renovating the rear wing of the château with eight bedrooms plus en suite bathrooms and a kitchen for guest use; but the duke is unwell, and we thought it too much to take on.’ She skipped swiftly past this small obstacle to another of the many facilities the château offered.

Jo found she’d stopped listening. Someone was knocking on the long French windows leading to the terrace and being completely ignored by Héloise, as if they didn’t exist. Jo felt her irritation levels rise. Really, this woman was more grande dame than the duchess herself.

A man stood outside. He was wearing the characteristic blue workman’s overalls of the region, yet there was something about him that told you instantly he was not just a horny-handed son of the soil. He had a way of holding his tall, loose-limbed frame that made Jo think of the Westerns she had seen, as if this man would be more at home in the saddle than on foot. His deeply tanned face suggested an outdoor life, and there was a certain relaxed confidence about him that contrasted sharply with Héloise’s chilly grandeur. His engaging smile held the faintest hint of irony when he saw who was speaking, as if he’d had plenty of experience of Héloise before.

Jo decided to let him in. ‘Ah,’ he murmured in a low, deep voice that certainly wasn’t French or British either, ‘better not interrupt Her Majesty. The duchess requested some grapes from the hothouse.’ He handed them over with what she could have sworn was a wink, except that it passed so quickly she might have imagined it. He saluted and slipped away, smiling to himself. After a few yards he glanced back, as if he were assessing Jo and liked what he saw.

Jo shook her head, deciding she was suffering from middle-aged delusions.

‘Some grapes for the duchess,’ she explained when she found Héloise’s basilisk stare fixed on her. ‘She asked for them, apparently.’