Violet looked intensely satisfied. “Obviously he doesn’t like to be reminded he was a waiter. He’s probably insinuating he was born to the purple. Milton, remember how Sir John and Lady Victoria joked about the dreadful people who brag about fine connections?”

Sylvie saw the pride with which Violet dropped the names of her titled friends. Inspiration struck her. “It just occurred to me . . .” She hesitated. Should she call the battle axe Violet or Mrs. Cohn? Violet. We’re going to see a lot of each other. “... I mean, I was just thinking, Violet, that you’d very much enjoy meeting Lady Exner, who also sits at my table. We’ve become very friendly and she’s already suggested that I visit her estate in Oxford. It’s called . . .” Oh, heck, what’s it called? Sylvie thought frantically. Lolly? Louie? Lew . . . Lew . . . “Llewellyn Hall!”

Violet joyously agreed that a drink with Lady Exner during the Captain’s Cocktail Party tonight would be a great pleasure. Then, sighing, she said her stomach was really pitching with the way the ship was rocking, and would dear Milton escort her to her cabin for a brief lie-down before luncheon?

Why don’t you just get on your broom and fly back? Sylvie thought.

Chapter 27

LADY EXNER AND Regan had lunch served on the iwprivate deck of the suite. As Regan pointed out, “Veronica, you’ve done the Sit-and-Be-Fit class; you’ve had a boat drill; you’ve attended a financial lecture, and it’s just past noon. Why don’t we order salads and relax for a couple of hours?”

“An excellent idea,” Veronica agreed merrily. “The psychic session is at two-thirty, and before one consults with a psychic, one should meditate. Get in touch with one’s inner life, deepest feelings, profound, unvoiced emotions.”

There’s nothing unvoiced in your life, Regan thought as she reached for the room-service menu. “How does chicken salad sound?”

“Delightful. Perfect for this balmy, sun-filled day. And don’t forget a bottle of Dom Perignon.”

“I just hope Philip and your accountant don’t think the Dom Perignon is my idea,” Regan commented.

“It’s absolutely none of their business whether I drink dishwater or Dom Perignon,” Veronica replied. “Besides, I foot the bill for acres of flowers every year that do not survive the winter chill.”

She’s more worldly than I realized, Regan thought with a grin. “No flies on you, Veronica.”

“Such a quaint American expression, and you’re absolutely right.”

The champagne did the double duty of keeping Veronica’s spirits joyous throughout lunch and then putting her to sleep in the chaise longue on the deck as soon as she laid down her fork. Regan sipped her second glass as she stared out at the horizon.