I wasn’t sure I wanted to dine with a rather bossy Englishwoman who claimed to be related to me, but it was better than standing like a wallflower.

“I actually stayed at Castle Rannoch when you were little,” she continued, “although I don’t suppose you remember me. We went out riding together once. You were a splendid little horsewoman.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t often get a chance to ride anymore and I miss it.”

“So do I,” she said. “I’m in Paris most of the year now, traipsing around behind Coco, and one can hardly get a decent gallop in the Bois de Boulogne.”

“You do not traipse behind me,” the woman she had addressed as Coco said in English. “It makes you sound like a dog on a lead. Since you take bigger strides than I, I am usually running to keep up with you. But you must introduce us, Vera. This very English young lady will not speak to me unless properly introduced.”

I laughed, but Vera said, “Sorry. Frightfully bad of me. Coco, this is Bertie’s daughter, Georgiana Rannoch. And this is my dear friend and business partner, Coco Chanel.”

My eyes opened wider at the mention of that name. “Chanel ? The couturiere?”

“The same.” She shrugged in that delightfully Gallic way. “I do not think you wear my clothes.”

“Can’t afford it,” I said. “I would if I could.”

“So you go to stay on the Riviera?” Chanel said, eyeing me critically, almost the way the handsome Frenchman had done.

“I think that’s where this train is headed,” I said and she laughed, a melodious and wonderfully sexy laugh.

“Delightful,” she said. “I will make you model for me. I am going to unveil my new collection at a special showing for the rich English on the Riviera and you will be my perfect model.”

“Oh, not me,” I said, my face turning bright red. “I’m frightfully clumsy, you know. I’d trip over my own feet and rip your gowns. I tried modeling once and it was a disaster. I put both legs into one half of a pair of culottes.”

This time both Vera and Chanel laughed.

“I am sure you would be splendid,” Coco said. “Wouldn’t she, Vera? Exactly the look we want to achieve—the English rose, but with naughty overtones.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have many naughty overtones,” I said.

“You will, once you are mixing with that crowd on the Riviera,” Vera said. “They are all frightfully naughty.”

“The English?”

“Oh, yes. Worst of the lot. They’re so repressed at home, after all those years in boarding school, that they become positively wanton the moment they hit Calais.” She leaned closer to me. “Your dear departed papa was no saint, I can tell you. Tell her what this collection is all about, Coco.”

“It is the mixing of masculine and feminine,” Coco said,