I let the lid fall and spun around, red faced. Sir Toby was wearing white trousers and a striped fisherman’s jersey, rather like mine. Only his was a little tight and stretched over a large paunch. He bore down on me, holding out his hand. “Absolutely delighted. Nothing like a bright young face around the place to cheer me up. Has that man of mine brought you a drink yet? No? The boy is hopeless. Came with good references but he’ll have to go. My last manservant could read my mind, you know. I never had to ask for a thing.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“Had to let him go. Found he’d been helping himself to my good Scotch. The really good stuff. Couldn’t tolerate that. This young chap doesn’t drink.” We looked up at the light tap of feet on the marble. “Ah, there you are, Johnson. Oh, and you’ve brought my whiskey. You may just be all right after all.”

Johnson placed my drink on a low table, bowed then retreated.

Sir Toby poured himself a generous amount of Scotch and raised his glass to me. “Down the hatch.” He drained the glass. “So why on earth are you staying with the old hens next door? I’d have thought a bright young thing like you would have more fun somewhere in town.”

I thought carefully before I answered. “I’ve been doing a spot of modeling for Chanel. She wanted me to stay with her so that she could work with me.” Which was the truth. I’ve always found it easier not to lie whenever possible.

“Ah, so you’re a model. That explains it. Do you do your modeling in London or Paris?”

“I don’t really model professionally,” I said. “I just do it occasionally to help out friends.”

“Of course. Of course. Well-brought-up girl like you—it wouldn’t be seemly to work for your living, would it?” He laughed heartily. “So how do you like my humble abode?”

“It’s magnificent,” I said. “You have so many lovely things.”

“I’m a bit of a collector,” Sir Toby said smugly. “I like to have beautiful things around me. You see that painting? It’s a Turner—one of my favorites. And the sunflowers? Van Gogh. And that picture of a chair beside it. Another Van Gogh, painted in Arles. He’s going to be worth a mint one day, take my word for it.”

“So you prefer recent masterpieces, do you?” I asked innocently.

“I collect the best of every century,” he said. “Those busts in the hall—from ancient Rome. That silver? Georgian. And that little table in the corner—Louis XIV. I don’t specialize in any particular country or period—anything rare and valuable. That’s what I collect. The art in this villa alone is worth a mint. And I’ve even more in my country house in England.”