“Well, she has two broken engagements to her name,” Bill said. “And something of a reputation as a jilt, accordingly.”

“Goodness. That doesn’t sound awfully like Jimmy’s sort of girl.”

Bill made a face. “The Wittons have fallen on hard times what with one thing and another, and Carruth, the father, is very well off. Self-made man, Birmingham clerk, invented some sort of telephone-exchange device and got himself a fortune and a knighthood to go with it. One might not call it the best match for an earldom that dates back to the Normans, but I suppose if it wasn’t an industrialist it would be an American. The estate will doubtless do very well out of it, assuming Jimmy gets the girl to the altar this time around.”

Pat frowned. “The Wittons can’t be so hard up that they’d marry him off to any old heiress for ready cash.”

“They really are in a bit of a hole. I’m afraid the Earl was dabbling in finance, which went as well as you might expect considering he has no more brains than Jimmy.”

“Oh dear.”

“Quite. Miss Carruth must have seemed a godsend, and you know Jimmy: he hits on an idea and then thunders along like a juggernaut instead of giving the slightest thought— Anyway, it’s not my business. For all I know, she may be as delightful as she is rich. I hope they’ll be very happy.”

“Will Miss Carruth be at the party?” Pat asked.

“No, it’s just you, me, Jimmy, and Preston Keynes. I don’t recall if you’ve met him? Good sportsman.”

“Thank goodness for that. These sorts of things are miserable for ladies.”

“Technically, you’re a lady,” Bill pointed out.

“Not for the purposes of a shooting party I’m not, and Jimmy had better remember that.”

“He will,” Bill assured her. “Nobody would invite the All-England Ladies’ Champion to a shooting party and ask her to crochet doilies.”

“Oh yes they would.”

“Well, Jimmy has more sense than that, at least,” Bill said, though he didn’t sound wholly convinced.

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Stonebridge station, where they alighted for Rodington Court, was a tiny place, no more than a pair of platforms and a shed. It was four o’clock when they reached it, but the sunlight was noon-bright, the air clear and fresh except for the railway smoke. Bill and the single porter between them got the bags to the front of the station, where a man in shabby tweeds stood waiting with a sooty contraption Pat identified as a Daimler.

“Jimmy!” Bill called.