“That young lady is never madame’s daughter,” the woman said in her silky voice and gave a false titter. “Your sister, surely.”

Since she had been one of the few people in the civilized world who had failed to recognize my mother and give her the appropriately groveling greeting, Mummy had taken an instant dislike to her. “I should point out that ‘that young lady’ is Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” she said. “Cousin to His Majesty. She will be seen as an ambassador of her country when we visit America. We want to do Britain proud, don’t we?”

The woman’s face was now rather red. “Oh, we do. We do. Forgive me for not recognizing you immediately. I will summon our Mademoiselle Dubois. She has recently joined us from Paris where she worked at the great couture houses. Allow me to escort you to a fitting room.”

“That told her,” Mummy muttered as the woman disappeared to find the fashionable Frenchwoman. “Sorry, but that remark about you being my sister got my goat. And fancy not recognizing me.”

There was a tap on the fitting room door and the woman, still red-faced, put her head around it. “Here is our young French assistant, madame,” she said. “Mademoiselle Dubois, I’m sure you’ll be able to find the perfect wardrobe for Lady Georgiana, won’t you?” And she stood aside to usher in a svelte, dark-haired young woman.

“Bonjour, and ’ow may I assist madame today,” she started to say, then a look of horror wiped the smile from her face. I swallowed back a gasp. I think Mummy did too. I waited until the senior saleswoman had closed the door behind her before the young Frenchwoman let out a sigh of relief.

“Crikey,” she said. “I thought you’d blow it for me.”

“Belinda!” I exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

My best friend, Belinda Warburton-Stoke, put her finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she said. “I’m supposed to be Mademoiselle Dubois.”

“But why?”

“Money, darling—why else? I’m rather broke at the moment and I saw this advertisement for a fashion assistant with knowledge of haute couture, preferably French.”

“Belinda, you’re terrible.” I started to laugh.

“Not at all. I fit the bill perfectly. After all, I did work with Chanel and I designed my own line of clothing.”

“No, I’m sure you’re perfectly qualified. Just not French.”

“Well, I had to claim to be French to beat out the other candidates. Also I wouldn’t want word to get back to the family. Granny might cut me out of her will if she heard I’d gone into trade.”

“But what if you have to serve real French people?”