“Splendid. Splendid,” he said, beaming at me now. He took out a crisp white handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Warm on this train, isn’t it? They’ll all get a frightful shock when they reach Scotland and the usual howling gale is blowing.”

“Do you live in Scotland?” I asked.

“Good lord, no. I’m a cosmopolitan bird myself. London and Paris, that’s me.” Then he extended a pink, chubby hand. “I should introduce myself. I’m Godfrey Beverley. I write a little column for the Morning Post. It’s called ‘Tittle Tattle.’ All the juicy gossip about what’s going on around town. You’ve probably heard of me.”

A small alarm bell was going off in my head. This man was part of the press. Was he ingratiating himself to me so that he could get the inside scoop on my current rapid departure from London?

“I’m sorry,” I said smoothly, “but we take the Times, and I pay no attention to gossip.”

“But my dear young lady, you must be one in a million if you don’t find gossip utterly delicious,” he said, looking up expectantly as soup plates were delivered to our table.

“Ah, vichyssoise—my favorite,” he said, beaming again. “I’ve heard they do a decent meal on this train these days. So much better than when they used to stop for lunch at York and we all had to cram down awful sausage rolls in twenty minutes. And I didn’t get a chance to ask you your name, my dear.”

I tried to come up with an innocuous name and was just about to say Maggie McGregor, which was the name of my maid at home, when the maitre d’ appeared at our table. “Some wine for you, your ladyship?” he asked.

“Uh, no, thank you,” I stammered.

“Your ladyship?” My table companion was gazing at me in eager anticipation. He put a hand to his mouth like a naughty child caught at the biscuit barrel. “Oh, heavens above, how silly of me. Of course. I recognize you now from your pictures in the Tattler. You’re Lady Georgiana, aren’t you? The king’s cousin. How absolutely crass of me not to recognize you. And here I was thinking you were an ordinary wholesome young girl going home from boarding school or university. You must have thought me frightfully presumptuous, trying to sit at your table. And how gracious you were about it too. Please do forgive my boorishness.” He half rose to his feet.

“Not at all,” I said, smiling to calm his fluster. “And please do stay. I hate to eat alone.”

“You are too, too kind, your ladyship.” He was positively bowing now.

“And I am an ordinary wholesome young woman,” I said. “I am going home to visit my family.”