“I’m sure it does,” I said gloomily, “whatever it is.”

“I always liked your brother,” Vera said. “Easygoing sort of chap. Good-natured.”

“And my sister-in-law is quite the opposite,” I said.

“When you get too bored, you must come and visit us,” Coco said. “We stay at delightful Villa Marguerite.”

I duly noted the name.

“Coco has a perfectly gorgeous villa of her own but she chooses not to stay there,” Vera said.

“Too far away from Nice, where I am putting on my collection,” Coco said. “Besides, Villa Marguerite is owned by one of my best clients. I expect her to order a lot of gowns while we are there.”

“Always the businesswoman,” Vera muttered to me.

Chanel ignored her. “And we shall work on turning you into my model,” she added.

While we had been talking I had a strange pricking sensation between my shoulder blades. I glanced around and saw that the handsome Frenchman was watching me as he ate his dinner.

“That man,” I whispered. “He keeps staring at me.”

Vera spun around. “It’s no good gazing at us wistfully, Jean-Paul,” she said. “We’re not going to invite you to join us. We’re having girl talk.”

“This charming young lady,” the Frenchman said, in English this time, “I do not think that she has been to the Riviera before?”

“This is Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” Vera said. “Bertie’s daughter.”

“How delightful.” He raised his glass to me. “I shall look forward to getting to know you better.”

“Watch out for that one,” Vera muttered as we turned back. “He eats little girls like you for breakfast and spits out the bones.”

“Who is he?”

“The Marquis de Ronchard. Old family. Loads of property in the colonies. Frightfully rich. Playboy, gambler. A little like your papa.”

It was startling to hear my father described in these terms, also to hear him called Bertie. I knew his name was Albert Henry, but I had only ever heard him called Rannoch by our equals and “Your Grace” by subordinates. I knew he had frittered away the last of the family fortune on the Riviera. I knew he had almost gambled away Castle Rannoch, but it was still a shock to hear him described as a playboy and a gambler. To me, on the few occasions I had seen him, he had seemed rather like Binky—affable, easygoing, inoffensive. I remembered that he had got down on all fours on the carpet to play at bears with me, and I had squealed with delight and terror. It was one of the few strong memories I had of him.

“I don’t think the marquis is too interested in a girl like me,” I said. “I’m not glamorous enough.”

“He likes virgins,” Vera muttered darkly. “Hunting runs in the blood, you know.”