Quesnel stepped forward, knowing his duty. The Frenchman twinkled at their hostess in a most agreeable manner, entirely distracting that good lady from the question of confusingly similar brunettes in purple dresses. “How do you do, Mrs Godwit?”

“A pleasure, a pleasure. Mr Lefoux, was it?”

“Indeed, dear lady.”

Prim said, all gossip and good cheer, “I must say, the weather since we arrived! Is it always so hot this time of year here in India?”

“Oh, my dear young lady, I assure you this is mild, demulcent even, compared to the true summer suffering of this heathen land. You are lucky – or should I say, propitious? You have timed your visit very well indeed – the monsoon season has only recently ended. Such rains as we have been having already this month, a pabulum, a tempering of our customary languish––”

Rue stopped listening. The ambassador’s wife was clearly a woman who enjoyed the sound of her own voice. She dropped flowery vocabulary about her like an incontinent hen might deposit eggs. This would not have been so horrible except that the voice in question was unpleasantly nasal. The banality of the subject matter only added insult to injury. Mrs Godwit was clearly a bore. But a powerful bore. Which meant Rue happily consigned her to Prim’s tender mercies.

Quesnel, one mock desperate look in Rue’s direction, was dragged along by Primrose.

Percy, unable to tolerate blathering, drifted towards a table of comestibles. It was laid with tea and coffee, ginger wine, and hard-iced milk with soda to quench the thirst. Percy was helping himself to a small plate of buttered scones and prunes soaked in rum when he was swarmed by a gaggle of giggling young ladies. Presumably these represented the eligible among the officers’ and ambassadors’ daughters. Percy, as usual, had drawn them to him like jam to toast.

Rue was left alone with Lieutenant Broadwattle. She noted a few other officers were present, wives in tow, but none seemed particularly scruffy or wolfish. “I’m assuming the werewolves will be joining us later, when it is fully dark?”

The lieutenant nodded, his attention on Prim’s graceful form. He offered Rue his arm and they drifted after the others. Mrs Godwit was still detailing the weather.

Prim guided the conversation towards more lucrative territory. “My dear Mrs Godwit, I have heard much of Brigadier Featherstonehaugh. Will he and his wife be attending this evening’s festivities?”

Mrs Godwit played along obligingly. “Oh, dear child, you haven’t heard?” Her expression held all the joy of a hedgehog faced with a bowl of bread and milk. Rue suspected this meant that the topic could only be tragic.

“Oh, my dear Mrs Godwit, he is not ill, is he?”