Darcy’s description of “a funny old thing” had made me expect someone quite different from the person standing before me. I couldn’t say how old she was—maybe forty, or a little older, but she was dressed in black silk pajamas and in her hand was the longest ebony cigarette holder I had ever seen, in which a black Russian cigarette was burning. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in luxurious waves. Her face was exquisitely made up with pouting red lips and she batted impossibly long black eyelashes at me a couple of times. The word “sultry” formed itself in my brain as she held out a long slender hand to me.

“Come. Let me look at you.”

I approached cautiously.

She was examining me critically and I was horribly conscious of my creased suit and hair that had been squashed under a hat. “So you are the one,” she said at last. “Interesting. I wouldn’t have said you were at all his type. But where is the dear boy, and what are you doing back here? I thought Darcy said you would be away for some days.” Her voice was deep and throaty, her English with just enough hint of precision and perfection to show she wasn’t a native speaker.

“I’m afraid Darcy had a family emergency and had to return unexpectedly to Ireland,” I said. “He asked me to bring the motorcar back to you with his thanks.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope?” she said.

“I hope so too.”

She took my hand in hers. “But you are freezing. Sit down. Here by the fire. Will you take sherry or brandy?”

“I shouldn’t disturb you any longer, Your Highness,” I said.

She laughed. She had a deep, throaty laugh that matched her voice. “You must call me Alexandra, or Zou Zou. All my friends do. Now sit. I insist.”

I did as I was told while she crossed the room to where a silver drinks tray stood on a low Chinese cabinet. Then she poured me a generous glass of sherry. As she poured I had time to look at my surroundings. The furniture was an interesting and eclectic mix of antique, exotic and modern. On the walls were paintings that even I, not extremely well versed in art, recognized. Surely that was a Monet? And a Chagall? And a Turner over the fireplace? And a virgin by some Italian master? Darcy was right when he said she was not exactly penniless.

“It was very good of you to lend Darcy your motorcar,” I said.

She laughed again. “I did still have the Rolls to get around in, and my little Lagonda sports car. And I was delighted to help out. I am very fond of him, you know. I would do anything for him.”