“So you’re going to Monte, are you?” I tried to hide my look of envy.

Belinda hesitated. “Ah. That part’s not quite settled yet. I don’t exactly have a firm invitation from anyone.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I was planning to camp out at the Negresco in Nice and do a little scouting around, but frankly Father’s check is less generous this year. I blame it on the wicked stepmother. Like your sister-in-law, she objects to family money being spent on the unmarried daughter. So I’ve got about enough cash to get me there, and then, who knows? I may have to have my car conveniently break down outside someone’s villa, like I did in Romania.”

“Belinda. You’re terrible.”

“It worked perfectly at the royal castle there, didn’t it?” Belinda gave me her cat-with-the-cream smile. Suddenly she grabbed my arm. “I’ve got a brilliant idea. Come with me, Georgie. We’ll stage that convenient breakdown together. It would be such a lark, wouldn’t it? And someone would be more likely to take us into their bosom if you were with me. Royalty does carry clout, and I gather your cousin the Prince of Wales is wintering on the Med at the moment, so you’d have a perfect excuse to be visiting him.”

“I can’t,” I said, while my less sensible half whispered that it would indeed be a tremendous lark. “Apart from the fact that I’m hardly dressed for the boat train, it’s a small matter of not being able to afford the ticket for the journey. And certainly not the Negresco until we secure our invitation.”

“I’d volunteer to share a room with you,” Belinda said, “but it might rather cramp my style.” She leaned closer to me. “Actually, I have a particular chap in mind.”

“Another one?”

“Of course.”

“So who is this new beau? Why haven’t I heard about him?”

“Not my beau yet; in fact, we only exchanged a few words and some very smoldering looks. He sat next to me at the roulette wheel at the casino before Christmas and when I was about to bet he put his hand over mine and said, ‘Allow me,’ and put a stake on for me. And it won too. He’s absolutely dreamy. What’s more, he’s a French aristocrat of incredibly long pedigree, I gather, and frightfully rich. But we never had a chance to get to know one another properly. He regretted that he had to leave for Paris the next morning, but hoped we’d meet again in more agreeable circumstances. So I’m planning to pick up where we left off.”

“Good luck,” I said. “Now, if you marry him, you’ll have to behave yourself. The French expect their wives to be terribly chaste and demure.”

“Not their mistresses, however,” Belinda said, smiling wickedly.