It turned out that Sir Digby and his wife were also crossing the Atlantic for the first time. “Sir Digby was asked to give a lecture at Harvard University and it seemed like too good a chance to turn down,” Lady Porter said. “I must say I was reluctant. We did a cruise on the Med once and I was not the very best sailor, was I, Digby.”

“Turned positively green,” Sir Digby said. “Puking all over the place.”

Lady Porter turned to the captain. “So tell me, Captain. Do ships like this sink very often?”

“Only once, Lady Porter,” the captain said with a straight face.

As we rose to retire to the Palm Court where a band was playing for dancing we saw a dashing young man coming through the crowd toward us. For a second I thought it was Darcy but then I realized that the black hair was slicked down and the skin was a Mediterranean tan, rather than Darcy’s Black Irish coloring. The young man’s dark eyes flashed with pleasure as he saw us, and Stella hurried toward him.

“There you are, Juan. We missed you at dinner.”

“You were invited to the captain’s table,” he said. “But I was put with ladies from Milwaukee. Madre de Dios—how they can talk. Where is this Milwaukee, anyway?”

“Not far from Chicago.”

“We will not be visiting this Milwaukee, I pray?”

“Don’t worry. We won’t be going there.”

“Thanks be to God for that,” he said, flashing impossibly white teeth as he smiled.

Stella turned back to us as if reveling in a new toy. “Isn’t he divine?” she asked. “Cy discovered him near Seville when he was plundering another convent. He speaks such good English and has done some acting too. Cy is going to make him a star, in my next movie, in fact. He’s going to play King Philip of Spain to my Mary Tudor.”

“Philip of Spain and Mary Tudor?” Mummy laughed. “They were about the least appealing couple in history. She was old and ugly and religious and he never even slept with her, did he?”

“One doesn’t need to keep strictly to history.” Stella smirked. “It is Hollywood after all.”

“Here’s good old Juan,” Cy boomed, pushing through to join us. “Let’s you and I head for the brandy and cigars, old fellow, and leave the ladies to their chatter, shall we?” He turned to us. “Isn’t he the real deal? Clark Gable will be eating his heart out. And you know who else is the real deal? You, Claire Daniels. You’re still it. The quintessential English rose. I don’t know why you’ve waited so long to be in pictures. But we’re going to remedy that.”