The footmen distributed port to the gentlemen and ladies alike. Jane was at a loss as to whether propriety meant she should accept or decline.

Colonel de Bodard settled the matter by pouring a generous glass for her. ‘Who could fully support it when they plan to put William VI on the throne? Him, I do not mind, but his son is as idle-headed a buffoon as ever lifted a sword, and I dread the day he inherits.’

‘Which is why’ – Mme Meynard swirled her port in her glass – ‘it is worth attending to the Bonapartists. Napoleon might be deposed, but his son is still King of Rome. Might he not come to claim the land that belonged to his father?’

‘With what soldiers? “King of Rome” is a mere courtesy title with no power behind it.’ Vincent tilted his glass to her. ‘I hardly think that a threat, especially as Napoleon II is only three years old.’

‘What does it matter if the king is fit to rule if there is a strong regent? You British, of all people, should recognise that.’

‘I think,’ M. Chastain said, with enough force that his voice bounced off the far wall. Jane cringed, remembering anew his address to his son. ‘I think that I should like a cigar. Would anyone else care for one?’

With murmurs of ‘Very kind’ and ‘Yes, thank you’ cigars were distributed among the gentlemen. Then, to Jane’s complete horror, Colonel de Bodard offered her one.

‘No. Thank you.’

‘You English are so strait-laced.’ Mme Meynard blew a smoke ring. Jane was certain that her face utterly betrayed her, because Mme Meynard threw her head back and laughed directly at Jane’s discomfiture.

‘Come now, madame.’ Colonel de Bodard patted Jane’s hand. ‘You must not mind her. She only teases those she likes. I remember my own surprise at the differences between France and England.’

‘Long live the differences!’ M. Archambault called across the table, pulling the lady to his right onto his lap.

Before Jane could rise from her chair to protest, the woman laughed and kissed him. ‘I say, long live the differences between men and women!’

‘Hear, hear!’ Many voices rose in approbation of the sentiment, and glasses were raised. Jane knew her face was red with shame for the woman, whom she could no longer consider a lady, yet she alone displayed any sense of consciousness of the indecorous behaviour. Even Vincent merely looked grave, which was not far from his natural expression under any circumstances.

Jane forced herself to stay in her seat, fighting her inclination to remove herself from a situation which she must, in England, find abhorrent. And yet, had she needed a firm reminder that she was abroad, nothing could suffice as well as the spectacle of a woman smoking a cigar and another being fondled upon the lap of a man whom Jane could only hope was her husband.