“Binky rarely comes down from Scotland,” I said. “He’s not very comfortable in a big city.”

“Can’t think why not,” Cedric said. He reached over, grabbed a sandwich and stuffed it into his mouth in one go. “Cities are where all the action is—the pulse of life of a nation. Art. Culture. Theater. They are what make a nation come alive.” He looked at me appraisingly. “So, are you just passing through? Paying a courtesy call upon Mama?”

Before I could answer this, the dowager duchess said for me, “She may be staying for a while, Cedric. The poor little thing has been under the weather. I told her she needs good food and country air to build her up again.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, leaving it to me to judge whether he was sorry I’d been under the weather or sorry that I’d be staying. I rather thought the latter.

“And it might be helpful to have another young person in the house when your nephew arrives,” she said glibly, as if this had just occurred to her. “He’ll find it overwhelmingly strange and I presume quite terrifying, poor boy.”

“My nephew,” Cedric said with a snort of contempt. “If he is my nephew. I’m still not convinced. Those Australians would sell their grandmother for tuppence.”

“I’m sure we’ll know when we see him,” the dowager said. “Supposedly he has a strong family resemblance. And since you’re not doing your part to produce an heir . . .”

“Don’t start on that again, Mother,” he said. “You know my sentiments. And I don’t see why I can’t leave my fortune as I choose. I’d much rather a new concert hall or theater than the continuation of a dreary dukedom.”

“Fortunately you have no choice in the matter,” she said in a clipped voice. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable when Cedric looked out of the window and said, “Good God. What on earth is that?”

An estate car had drawn up and out of it stepped Queenie. She was wearing a red hat that looked like an overturned flowerpot and an old overcoat made of the spiky fur of God knows what kind of animal—hyena would be my best guess. The dowager duchess turned to the window and raised her lorgnette in surprise.

“Oh, it’s my maid with the luggage,” I said.

“Your maid? You let her go around looking like an oversized hedgehog with a flowerpot on its head?” Her Grace demanded.

“She will be wearing her uniform underneath, but I haven’t yet got around to buying her a new overcoat,” I said, not wanting to confess that I had no money for such items.

“Oh, she’s new, is she?”

“Fairly,” I said.

“Then, my dear, the sooner you take her in hand and train her, the better,” Her Grace said. “You can’t let maids ape their betters in fur coats. It simply isn’t done. And a coat like that . . . well, it reflects on you in the end. I will ask the housekeeper if we have a suitable discarded black overcoat in the servant’s cupboard that she can wear if she has to leave the building again.”