Petra wondered if the smile would set on her face. She had the feeling it was probably more of a grimace. She glanced at her husband, who stood as composed as always, exchanging small talk with Lord Harrington. He met her glance, however, and there was something in his dark eyes that she couldn’t interpret. Was it a warning? She gestured to a footman with a tray of glasses. “Sherry, Lady Delmont?” Then she turned and walked away, back to the group she had been with earlier.

Lunch was served on small tables in the conservatory, warmed by the sun pouring through the glass roof. Petra had decided against a seating plan. She wanted to encourage informality and allowing her guests to choose their luncheon partners was a good way to do that. She and Guy, of course, would not sit together. Clothilde maneuvered herself next to Guy and engaged him in conversation that to Petra’s jaundiced eye seemed deliberately to exclude anyone else at their table.

She was, however, aware of Guy’s eyes on her much of the time although once again she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He maintained a cool courtesy and as far as she could tell managed to conduct a conversation with Clothilde while also engaging other members of the party at his table. He would not be impolite, she knew, but nevertheless she felt her own anger rise as she cast surreptitious glances in their direction. It was obvious to the blindest person that there was a special relationship between Guy Granville and Clothilde Delmont. She touched his arm too often in emphasis, fluttered her extremely long dark eyelashes, and laughed prettily when he spoke. For a moment Petra could find it in her to feel sorry for Guy as he tried to deflect the woman while maintaining a courteous façade. But then she thought that he must have been expecting this, he’d invited her after all. And whatever excuse he thought he had for doing so, nothing would ease her angry disappointment.

At the end of the meal, the guests wandered away from the tables, some into the garden, others into the salon, others to the billiard room or the smoking room. Petra saw Clothilde in the garden, her hand resting possessively on Guy’s arm as he attempted to pour cognac for the prime minister, who stood in the same conversational group by an ornamental pond where a marble fish spouted a fountain of water. Petra walked over to them.

“It’s such a lovely mild afternoon. Would anyone like to play croquet? The croquet lawn is set up.” She indicated the smooth, velvety green lawn with its hoops just beyond a low ornamental hedge.

“Oh, I detest that game,” Clothilde declared, “hitting a ball through hoops, so childish.”