“Is the room to your liking?” she asked. “It was all so very last-minute that I didn’t have time to think where you would be most comfortable.”

“Thank you, it’s a lovely room. I shall be quite comfortable there, I assure you.”

“The view is better from the other side of the house,” she said, “but that seems to have become our bachelor wing—my son’s guests, you understand.”

“I think I saw them just now. They came running up when a Rolls appeared.”

“Did you?” She pursed her lips in disapproving fashion. “That would be my son returning from town. He went up to London to see a show in the West End. He was a benefactor, so I understand. He sees himself as a Medici—a great patron of the arts.” She gave a contemptuous sniff. “Hasn’t an ounce of talent himself, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from composing dreadful music and painting dreadful pictures and surrounding himself with those obnoxious young men.” She looked up from her sandwich. “The Starlings, they call themselves. I haven’t decided whether they think they are future stars in terms of the arts, or whether they simply dress in black and twitter a lot.”

I had to smile.

“Black or white?” Her Grace said, indicating to a maid that she should pour coffee.

“Oh, white please, at this time of day.”

A cup of milky coffee was placed in front of me and I reached forward to take a ham sandwich. One thing was clear—I was not going to starve in this place. After Fig’s austerity measures and then Mrs. Tombs’s cooking, I felt like I was in heaven.

Her Grace looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps. “That will be my son now. No mention of why you’re here. He’s not the easiest of people, and he doesn’t take kindly to my meddling.”

I looked up as the Duke of Eynsford came toward us. He was probably once a moderately good-looking man, now gone to seed. His face was podgy, with extra chins and his black velvet jacket was buttoned tightly over an impressive paunch. His hair was already thinning but combed across his bald spot, making him look older than his forty-nine years.

“Hello, Mother,” he said. “Opening night was a resounding success. The critics loved it. I shall reap a handsome little amount for my investment, as well as introducing the world to a brilliant new playwright.” He stopped as he suddenly noticed me. “Hello,” he said. “I see we have visitors.”

“Just one visitor, Cedric,” the dowager countess said. “This is Georgiana Rannoch. You remember that her grandmother, Queen Victoria’s daughter, was most kind to me when I was a new lady-in-waiting.”

“Oh yes. Right.” He could not have looked less interested, and I wondered if it crossed his mind that I might have been brought down here in a last, desperate attempt to marry him off to someone suitable. He came over and held out a limp hand. “How do you do? I’m Cedric, as I’m sure she’s told you. Your brother is the present Duke of Rannoch, isn’t he? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him at the House of Lords.”