A bucket of champagne appeared as we sat down. Two glasses were poured. Jean-Paul raised his to me. “To the next step on the road to discovery,” he said, his eyes holding mine in that smoldering stare. I felt a strange surge of warmth at the pit of my stomach and recognized it as desire. I had a suspicion that the Rannoch code of honor would not last out the evening, and I wondered how I felt about that.

“Drink up,” Jean-Paul said. “Plenty more where that came from.” He turned to the maitre d’. “Now, what do you suggest for such a lovely young lady this evening, Henri?”

“We have acquired some very fine lobsters, so may I suggest one for the fish course? And I presume you wish to begin with caviar as usual? We have had a new batch brought in from Siberia only yesterday. And then a melon filled with port? And for soup—our consommé or would you prefer something more robust?”

“The consommé. One needs a clear palate for the lobster,” Jean-Paul said.

“Naturally. The marquis’ taste is flawless as always. And for the main course—breast of duck cooked the way you like it, with orange and ginger? And to finish? I know you like our baba au rhum but maybe a crème brûlée for the young lady. She does not want the heavy dessert.”

“Bring both. We’ll decide later,” Jean-Paul said. “And then your fine cheese board and a cognac and we will be content.” He looked up to see if I approved. I, who until recently had suffered Fig’s austerities, was so overwhelmed by the thought of all this food that I could only nod dumbly.

“Excellent, mon vieux,” Jean-Paul said. “And I can trust you to select the appropriate wines to accompany each, can I not?”

“Have I ever let you down, Marquis?”

“Never.”

It was a terribly French exchange. I half expected them to leap up and embrace each other. Henri went away and returned almost instantly with a plate with different types of caviar sitting in tiny dishes on a bed of ice.

“Ah,” Jean-Paul said, giving a delighted smile like a child who has been given a present. He scooped some pink caviar onto a piece of melba toast, then repeated the gesture from lunch, reaching across the table to pop it into my mouth. I remembered what he had said about seducing a woman gradually, so in the end it is she who is begging to be made love to. Having dug into the caviar, Jean-Paul appeared relaxed and enjoying himself and started asking me questions about my family and home. I described Castle Rannoch and he shuddered. “Me, I do not think it sounds very comfortable,” he said.

“It isn’t. It’s quite spartan and cold.”

“Then I do not think you would find it disagreeable to spend your winters on the Riviera in future?”