She always noticed if a footman had a toothache, for example, and sent him back to the servants’ quarters immediately. She asked about the housekeeper Mrs. Simpkin’s two nieces, who were growing up a bit unruly; she never forgot to inquire kindly about Campion’s only son, who had been a chef-in-training over in France, but had to get out quickly when the Frenchies went crazy, and now he was doing very well for himself, training over at the Maison Blanche on Thurston Street.

But if a painting bogged down because a nose or an ear gained a misshapen air that didn’t match the original, then the house hummed rather than sang. Housemaids tiptoed past Charlotte’s studio on the third floor, and dust accumulated in the room because the servants never knew when she would be found standing in front of an easel. Once an upstairs maid entered the room at eleven o’clock at night to replace the candles, and accidentally walked in on Lady Charlotte, who sent her away with a sharpish remark. After that Mrs. Simpkin and Campion monitored the progress of pictures themselves, and regulated the household accordingly.

So Campion nodded sagely and smiled at his mistress. He’d take care of the marguerites first thing, and Her Grace shouldn’t worry about a thing, he murmured. And then he reminded the duchess of her engagement at a fête de champagne. Adelaide dashed lightly up the stairs to get dressed. She didn’t think of asking Charlotte, and the duke was out at his club.

Charlotte sighed heavily. Campion swam silently into the room and removed her barely touched chicken, suppressing his own sigh at the sight.

The Calverstill chef, Renoir, was wasted on the family, absolutely wasted. But Renoir would never know. When the family dined alone Campion always removed the dishes himself, and they invariably returned to the kitchen as if a rejoicing family of ten had surfeited themselves. It was part of his campaign to keep Renoir happy, and he knew that the underfootmen, Fred and Cecil (a ridiculous name for a footman), would never reveal that they too enjoyed duck à l’orange or poulet à la diable of an evening.

Charlotte wandered back up to her bedchamber rather disconsolately. She could dress and follow her mother to Lady Bridgeplate’s fête but it would look rather odd. And what if her mother had gone on to another party, something she was quite capable of doing? Charlotte would arrive and find herself without a chaperone, and Lord knows that would be bad for her reputation.