There was a queue, which was usual, and Petra took her place at the back, looking around at the beach just below. Some children were playing with buckets and spades in the damp rippled sand, others exploring the rock pools left high and dry by the receding tide, their shrill voices rising in competition with the screaming gulls. The cluster of shellfish pickers were still at their gathering. The queue moved forward and she moved with it, still watching the scene on the beach. It would be too cold to swim even if the tide were in, but the beach would look completely different, water lapping golden sand instead of the expanse of damp dark sand and black mud with its green and brown patches of seaweed and toppled, stranded boats. In winter, she knew, the sky would be gray and black, seeming to join seamlessly with the dark wet sand and the dark brown mud, but today the sky was clear and brilliant blue, the sun pouring yellow light onto the scene.

She had reached the head of the queue without realizing it until the person behind nudged her elbow. “Oh . . . sorry,” she apologized quickly. “Cod and chips, please. Salt and vinegar.”

She waited, salivating, as the man in his blue-striped apron dropped a piece of battered cod into the steaming fryer. He fished it out, dumped it on a sheet of newspaper on the counter, ladled a huge quantity of crisp chips on top and liberally doused the whole in vinegar with a hefty shake of salt. “There y’are, miss.” He folded the newspaper over to form a packet and handed it to Petra. “Sixpence halfpenny.”

She took the hot, greasy parcel and tossed sixpence halfpenny onto the counter, turning away with a word of thanks, climbing down the few steps that led to the beach. She found a rock resting up against the seawall and sat down, inhaling the fragrance of her lunch mingled with the salt tang of the sea air.

“Well, I can’t imagine what Lord Ashton would say if he could see you now,” a familiar voice said from above her.

Petra felt a cold anger at the invasion of her privacy. Of all the people to disturb her peace on this day, this woman was the worst. She twisted to look up and behind her. Clothilde Delmont stood on the wall looking down at her. “What are you doing here?” Petra demanded making no attempt at politeness.

“You said you’d be here today,” Clothilde said, surveying the steps down to the beach warily.

“How did you get here?” Petra asked, looking around. “Is Lord Harrington with you?”

“No. His carriage brought me.” She looked around with an air of disdain. “This place is the height of vulgarity. I can’t believe Guy would patronize it. Is he here?”