“Dear little Georgiana,” she said, coming to me. “How charming you look. Come and meet everybody.”

She led me into the group of people standing with glasses in their hands, around the fire. “I don’t know if you’ve met Georgiana Rannoch,” she said. “Bertie Rannoch’s daughter, you know.”

“Poor old Bertie. Such a shame,” someone muttered. For a second I misinterpreted this as such a shame he’d had a daughter like me, but then the person added, “Dying so young like that.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Princess Zamanska said. “The Riviera feels positively dull and lifeless without him, doesn’t it? But you’ll never guess what—this sweet young thing has now captured the heart of our dear Darcy.”

They were all looking at me, and I could feel them sizing up my old-fashioned and well-worn dress. Some stares were amused, some intrigued.

The princess took my arm. “Let me introduce you. My countrymen the Count and Countess Rostoff,” she said. “And perhaps you know Dicky Altringham? And Bubbles Cantrell-Smythe?” I did, but only by name and by pictures in the Tatler, not by moving in such fashionable circles. Then there was a Sir James and Lady Something-or-other—“He’s big in banking, you know. A good man to know if you want a loan.” Much laughter at this. She moved on to a dashing Frenchman whom she introduced as Le Marquis de Chambourie. Another person I had heard of but never met. He was already eyeing me with interest. “Enchanté,” he said and kissed my hand, his lips lingering a little too long on my skin.

“Behave yourself, Jean-Claude,” she said. “You are not allowed to devour her before dinner.” She turned to me. “And we are still waiting for our most distinguished guests. She always likes to be fashionably late.”

The doorbell sounded.

“Ah, here they are now,” she said.

We stood, listening expectantly as there was a low murmur of voices in the hallway. Then the maid appeared, looking a little flustered. “The Prince of Wales and Mrs. Ernest Simpson.”

Oh crikey. I stared in dismay as my cousin David and his poisonous lady friend came into the room. He looked dashing in white tie. She, I was amused to see, was wearing a black beaded evening gown quite similar to that of the Princess Zamanska. The princess must have noticed this too as I saw a flash of amusement cross her face.

“How good of you to come, sir,” she said, going over to meet them.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, would we, Wallis?” the prince said.

“And Mrs. Simpson. How lovely to see you again. It’s been ages. Not since Bender’s yacht that time.”

“How are you, my dear?” Mrs. Simpson said. “Such a lovely dress. Paris, I think.”