“Pat is the All-England Ladies’ Champion,” Bill said. “That’s target shooting, of course.”

“As the competition demands,” Pat put in for avoidance of doubt. “I’m here for partridge.”

“You’ll be shooting to kill?” Mr. Haworth asked.

“That...is the idea, yes.”

“I ask because some ladies have a horror of the sight of blood,” the gentleman observed. “Poor little bunny rabbits, you know, poor persecuted foxes.”

“I’m not squeamish.”

“I must say, that shows rare nerve for a lady,” Mr. Haworth replied with a smile. “Anna never picks up a gun; she prefers to hunt other game. And you, Miss Singh? Are you an aspiring shot? Tigers back home, perhaps?”

“I don’t kill animals, for sport or any other reason,” Miss Singh said, voice tight. “I am a member of the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”

Oh Lord, a fanatic. Pat cast about for something to say, but Mr. Haworth got in first. “So you oppose hunting. How very interesting. Is that on religious grounds?”

“It is a moral stance based on my views of how animals should be treated.”

“But your convictions nevertheless allow you to attend a shooting party?” Mr. Haworth raised a brow. “How very flexible.”

“I should hope we can visit one another without sharing every one of our beliefs with our hosts,” Bill said. “Look, here’s Preston.”

Maurice Haworth’s mouth tightened slightly, but he turned with the rest of them to greet the two men who entered. The elder, who looked to be in his early thirties, was impeccably dressed and strikingly good-looking; the younger was a rugged sort with a face that suggested he’d done a lot of boxing and mostly lost. They were introduced as Jack Bouvier-Lynes, the handsome one, who kissed each lady’s hand with great style, and Preston Keynes, the pleasantly ugly one, who offered inarticulate but enthusiastic congratulations on Pat’s sporting triumph.

“Marvellous stuff, awfully good. Heard all about you. Looking forward to seeing you handle a gun, if I may say so.”

“Thanks,” Pat said. “What do you shoot for partridge?”

That topic, about which any shooter could talk for days, instantly removed all constraint. She and Mr. Keynes talked animatedly for several minutes about Holland and Holland shotguns, Farquharson sporting rifles, and the best ammunition to use in each. Around them Mr. Bouvier-Lynes and Mr. Haworth stood with Lady Anna, while Bill chatted to Miss Singh, and the odd feeling of tension in the room ebbed away. Pat was just in the middle of describing a particularly tricky shot with which she’d taken a rocketing pheasant last season when the sound of approaching feet echoed on stone, and the final members of the party entered.