The Honourable James Yoxall raised a hand in greeting. “Bill!” He came over, smiling at Pat. “And the champion herself. Hello, old thing. Belated congratulations on your triumph.” He shook hands with Bill, and they all spent a couple of moments in mutual assurances that they looked well and the weather was good. It felt oddly awkward, considering that the two men were friends of long standing. She hoped Bill hadn’t disapproved too obviously of Jimmy’s forthcoming marriage. That would put anyone’s back up.

Pat had once wondered, in an academic sort of way, if she and Jimmy might make a match of it. Jimmy was a countryman who she’d assumed would want a solid, sensible wife. He’d never been known as a womaniser, they rubbed along very happily, and she would have loved to run an estate up here, in partridge country. It had seemed to her the perfect basis for marriage: a friendship combined with a job opening.

The idea hadn’t struck Jimmy, which caused Pat slight regret but no heartache. She hoped he’d be happy with his choice, and that his motivations were more than financial despite Bill’s gloomy outlook. He might well have fallen head over heels in love with his flighty heiress: one could never predict the human heart. After all, they lived in a world where a sane woman had voluntarily chosen to marry Jonty.

“Right, well, shall we go? You two are the last to arrive and I’m jolly glad to see you. Hop in the bus. Pat?” Jimmy opened the passenger door for her.

“No, no, you two catch up,” she said, gesturing Bill to take the front seat.

“No, no,” both men said together. Pat rolled her eyes at the display of chivalry, and opened the door of the back seat for herself. Bill shrugged and took his seat by Jimmy, and the car moved off.

Pat looked around at the landscape as they drove, letting herself soak up the atmosphere. They’d clearly had the same dry, cold summer up here as down in Shropshire; the vegetation around was sparse but not scorched. It would be good shooting weather if it held, and she felt a tickle of anticipation. Tomorrow was the thirty-first so there would be a day free before the season began; she wondered if Jimmy would give her a lesson in the motor-car. Jonty hadn’t yet bought one so she hadn’t had a chance to get behind a wheel, and was itching to try. Thank goodness this was a Scots-style party, with no nonsense about socialising.

“I’m sorry, what?” Bill demanded from the front seat, loud enough for her to hear over the wind and engine noise. “What do you mean, she’s here?”

“She’s my fiancée, dammit. She said she wanted to come. I could hardly refuse.”