“I understand that is Sir Toby’s private beach,” Coco said, “so you should not go there. If we wish to swim we must do so from the rocks. And I do not wish you to risk injuring yourself before my soiree. Besides, the ocean is too cold.”

As soon as she had gone I went into the grounds. I was not about to obey her; I was dying for a swim. It had also occurred to me that meeting Sir Toby by accident on my way down to the beach—which of course I didn’t realize was private—would be my only chance to get into that villa. I put on my bathing suit—a hopelessly girlish and unflattering garment of sagging black wool—then my stoutest sandals and made my way to the back of the property where the tamed gardens gave way to rocky cliffs. I’d spent my life climbing and clambering over rocks in Scotland so I was able to pick an easy route downward. Of course the mountains in Scotland are granite, which doesn’t crumble. Here the cliffs were sandstone, which does. I put my foot on a rocky outcrop, which promptly gave way, and I found myself slithering down ungracefully. I came to a halt in the bushes by Sir Toby’s pool. The villa stood right behind it, French doors open. This wasn’t a good idea—it smacked of trespassing and would not put me in Sir Toby’s good books. I might even find myself shot or attacked by guard dogs.

I was looking for a way to climb back up to safety when I heard voices—raised voices. At first I couldn’t make out words but they were having a good old fight. Then they came closer.

“You bastard!” a woman’s voice screamed.

“Do you think I’m stupid, you little tramp?” a man’s deep voice responded.

Then the woman stepped out onto the terrace and turned to glare into the house. “You will regret this, I promise you. Olga does not forgive or forget.” She waved a fist, as if in a curse. Then she snatched up a bag she had left lying on a table and stalked away. This was no time to meet Sir Toby. I made my way back up the cliff.

When I got to my room I was met by an excited Queenie.

“Cor, miss. Did you hear that? A right going-on down there, weren’t it? Going at it hammer and tongs. They was using words no lady or gentleman ought to use. It was just like the pictures—or outside the Three Bells on a Saturday night.”

“That just shows you that money does not make breeding, Queenie,” I said.