“My dear, so good of you to come at such an unsettling time. We all feel for your poor, dear brother. Such a travesty. Let us hope they get to the bottom of it rapidly. Come and meet Imogen and our American guests.”

Imogen pretended to be thrilled. “Georgie. How lovely,” she said. We kissed the air somewhere near each other’s cheeks. I glanced around, expecting to see Mrs. Simpson, but the Americans turned out to be a Mr. and Mrs. Wilton J. Weinberger.

“I understand your brother is the Dook we’ve been reading about,” he said as he shook my hand.

“And these are our neighbors, Colonel and Mrs. Bantry-Bynge.” Lady Mountjoy whisked me away before I could be interrogated on this subject. I had wondered why the woman had seemed vaguely familiar. I felt my face flushing and awaited doom. Colonel Bantry-Bynge shook my hand. “How de doo,” he said heartily.

Mrs. Bantry-Bynge also took my hand. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, your ladyship.” And gave a little curtsy. Her eyes were lowered and I had no way of knowing whether she recognized me as her former maid or not. If she did, she was obviously not going to say anything, given that I knew what I knew. I stood with the group, exchanging a few pleasantries on “your delightful British countryside and how disappointed Willy is that he couldn’t try the hunting,” then I was mercifully dragged away by Imogen to see pictures of her recent trip to Florence.

“Is this the sum total of male dance partners?” I whispered to her. “Whiffy and Tristram?”

She made a face. “I know. It’s grim, isn’t it. But Mummy says it’s not really a young person’s weekend and it all is for the prince and his pals, but she is trying to come up with a couple more men who are not old fogies in time for the ball tomorrow. Whiffy’s not a bad dancing partner but Tristram is guaranteed to step on one’s toes. He’s hopeless, isn’t he? I used to hate it when he was brought over to play with us. He was always breaking one’s toys or falling out of trees and getting us into trouble.”

“Imogen, why don’t you show your friends to their rooms,” Lady Mountjoy suggested. “I’m sure you young people have masses to talk about.”

“Good idea. Come on, then.” She led us up the stairs, marching in unladylike fashion. “Anything to get away from those awful people,” she said, glancing back down the curved staircase. “Thank God it’s not hunting season or that Wilton person would have ruined our horses. Utterly dreary so far, don’t you think? I mean, one had hopes about the Prince of Wales, but one gathers that he has other interests.”

“Who will be arriving with her own husband,” Belinda said, laughing.

“Really?” Marisa looked fascinated.