“No-one could give you better advice than Lina in matters of lady’s fashion,” Mr. McAllister chimed in, “though in all other matters, you may turn to me with confidence.”

“Oh, indeed,” Mrs. Astor said, bestowing a warm smile upon the man who, Margaret had decided, reminded her of a supercilious newt. “Samuel is the arbiter of taste here in New York. In fact, I would go so far as to say that there is no-one, save myself, of course, who understands the intricacies and nuances of society more. He was just helping me finalise the supper menus for my ball. You will receive an invitation in due course, Lady Margaret. And Mrs. Scrymgeour, too.”

“Lina’s ball is the most exclusive event of the season. You have no idea the lengths some people will go to, to obtain an invite. A woman who shall remain nameless recently accosted me at a soirée, determined to persuade me there existed a tenuous connection between her family and a cousin of a cousin of Lina’s.” Mr. McAllister tittered. “Needless to say no invitation will be forthcoming. You, however, are a different matter entirely, Lady Margaret. No-one could question your lineage. All doors will be open to the daughter of the Duke of Buckley? Buckluck? Is that how it is pronounced?”

“Buccleuch,” Marion corrected him. “It rhymes with clue, as in ‘haven’t a clue.’”

“I believe you were one of the bridesmaids at Princess Helena’s wedding, Lady Margaret,” Mr. McAllister continued, blandly ignoring this intervention.

“An honour earned through my mother.”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Astor said. “I had heard that the duchess is great friends with the queen. Is it true that Her Majesty wore black to her daughter’s wedding?”

“The queen never wears anything other than black.”

“Such a difficult colour for some to carry off as well as I can. Especially when they are lacking in inches. I do feel Her Majesty would be better advised to try softer tones. Grey, for example.”

“Yes?” Margaret said, nonplussed. Was Mrs. Astor imagining that she would pass her suggestion on to the queen? Louise would have been tickled by this. If only Lou were here—but, no, of all things, Louise loathed pretentiousness and toadying. She would have made mincemeat of Mrs. Astor’s chief courtier, for there was no doubt that was the role Mr. McAllister had allotted to himself.

“How long do you intend to grace us with your presence, Lady Margaret?” he now asked her.

“I plan to make New York my home, and Mrs. Scrymgeour’s, too, for the foreseeable future.”

“Really? Will you take a town house? I would be more than happy to advise you—”

“I am sure you would,” Marion intervened, “but Margaret and I are looking forward to combining a little sight-seeing with house-hunting, aren’t we, my dear?”