At last Frederick opened a door and I stepped into a spacious and elegant room. No Victorian frou-frou and bric-a-brac here—the furniture had the clean lines of the Georgians, the four-poster bed was covered in a blue-and-white, silken counterpane. There were two chintz-covered ladies’ chairs around the marble fireplace, and a pretty little Queen Anne writing desk sat in one of the bay windows. Really it was the most inviting bedroom I had ever seen—a room in which one could easily stay for a month or more.

Frederick put down my cases on a bench. “I don’t know if Her Grace will be wanting to move you to somewhere more suitable,” he said. “We only heard you were coming last night so we were told to put you in one of the guest rooms for now.”

If this wasn’t suitable, I wondered what was. And in case you think I wasn’t used to staying at the best houses, I’d actually stayed at Balmoral with the king and queen every August. It was a requirement of being related to the royals. And trust me, Balmoral is Spartan compared to this—and one has to endure tartan carpets! I had also stayed at a wide variety of stately homes and family seats, but for sheer opulence and elegance this was going to be hard to beat. It struck me that there was still a significant family fortune connected to this title. As I looked out of the window, I heard the crunch of more tires on gravel and wondered if it could be Queenie arriving from the station. But instead a brand-spanking-new Rolls-Royce was pulling up. A chauffeur in a smart, green uniform leaped out and came around to open the back door. Out of it stepped a portly, middle-aged man. He was dressed in a black-velvet jacket and rather baggy trousers. He stood, looking around and as if on cue, three young men came bounding like colts from behind a high hedge in the formal side garden. They too were dressed in black, form-fitting garments, and the way they moved made me think I was watching a ballet in progress. They greeted the portly man with hugs, dancing around him like a group of greyhounds, greeting their master.

I wondered if I was indeed looking at the master of this house. At least this current scene might explain his refusal to marry! After a sheltered youth such things no longer shocked me. Mummy’s good friend was Noël Coward and I had been to parties with his cronies, and I had met plenty of young men who would probably also never marry. Actually I enjoyed the witty banter and the air of urbanity—so remote from the austere halls of Castle Rannoch, where I was raised by a God-fearing, hellfire-breathing Presbyterian nanny.

I remembered that the dowager duchess was probably waiting for me downstairs. There was even a washbasin with hot and cold running water in one corner of the room and I removed my hat, washed my face and hands and brushed my hair. But I was rather in need of a lavatory. I glanced at the bell that hung beside my bed on a brocade pull. One tug would bring a servant running, but surely I could locate the nearest bathroom without help? I had just come out of my door when I heard the swish of starched skirts and a maid came toward me, carrying a pile of sheets.