“Oh, if you don’t mind, Charlie, I’d like to sit this one out,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “I’d like some champagne and one of those lobster thingies. Could you get me one, please?” Her smile was cajoling.

“Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.” He moved toward the buffet table.

“Why isn’t Fenella here tonight?” Petra asked into the moment of silence.

“Edward has a play showing somewhere in Chiswick,” Diana told her. “It was a rather sudden engagement, but apparently he decided on the spur of the moment to see how it would play to a different kind of audience.”

“And Fenella has a part, of course.”

“Of course,” Diana agreed. “Anything to do with the theatre that involves Edward involves his wife. They’re two of a kind, those two.”

Petra nodded in acknowledgment, aware once again of that little stab of envy. Edward and Fenella could fight like cat and dog, but there was never any question of their commitment to each other, of the deep love and loyalty that went along with their naturally challenging natures and their shared passion for the theatre.

“I managed to nab the last two of the lobster thingies.” Charlie reappeared, setting a plate in front of Petra with a fresh goblet of champagne.

“Thank you, you’re a dear.” She smiled up at him. “Have one.”

He shook his head. “No, I had several while you were dancing with Granville.”

Petra wondered if Guy would reappear as the evening progressed, but there was no sign of him, or of Clothilde Delmont. It was well after midnight when the party broke up and she stood outside in the cool of the night waiting for Charlie’s driver to bring around the barouche. She climbed in, arranging her skirts around her, waving farewell to Diana and Rupert, who were waiting for their own carriage.

“That was a good evening,” Charlie said, settling beside her. “Straight home?” he asked.

“No, let’s drive around for a little,” she suggested. “It’s such a beautiful night and I’m not terribly sleepy. Probably because I had a nap this afternoon,” she added with a laugh. “Are you tired?”

“Not in the least,” he responded gallantly. He leaned forward to speak to the coachman on his box. “Fred, just drive for a little, maybe down to Berkeley Square, along Piccadilly perhaps. Unless”—he turned to Petra—“unless you’d rather go into the Park?”

Petra shook her head, “No, it’s not fair to keep Fred up too long. Just ten minutes or so.” She leaned back contentedly against Charlie’s encircling arm.

“I wish I thought you meant something by leaning against me like that,” he said with a mock sigh.

“Oh, Charlie, you know I love you, you’re one of my dearest friends, but . . .”