“To Castle Rannoch? How delightful. I shall be staying at my favorite inn, not far from you. I always like to go up to Scotland during the season. Everybody who is anybody is there, of course, and there is always the chance that your esteemed family members will appear from Balmoral and mingle with humble commoners like myself from time to time.” He paused to work his way through the soup. “I presume you have been invited to Balmoral?”

“Yes, one is always expected to put in an appearance each season,” I said, “but I plan to spend a few days at home on the family estate first.”

“They must all miss you so much when you are away,” he said. “Have you been traveling in Europe?”

“No, I’ve been in London for most of the time,” I said, then I remembered that he was Mr. Tittle Tattle. “Of course one visits friends frequently at their country houses. I’m a country girl at heart. I can’t stay in the city for too long.”

“How true, how true,” he said. “So do tell me with whom you have stayed recently. Any juicy scandals?”

“Not since the German princess,” I said, knowing he would be fully conversant with that one.

“My dear, wasn’t that awful? You are so lucky to have escaped with your life, from what one hears.”

The empty soup plates were whisked away to be replaced with roast pheasant, new potatoes and peas. Godfrey Beverley beamed again. “I have to confess that I do adore pheasant,” he said, and tucked in with relish.

“So tell me,” he asked after he had demolished most of the food on his plate, “what is this we hear about your esteemed cousin the Prince of Wales and his new companion? Is it true what they are saying, that she is a married woman? Twice married, in fact? And an American to boot?”

“I’m afraid the Prince of Wales does not confide in me about his lady friends,” I said. “He still sees me as a schoolgirl.”

“How shortsighted when you have blossomed into such a lovely young woman.”

I was about to remind him that he had also taken me for a schoolgirl, and he must have remembered at the same moment because he became flustered again and started playing with his bread roll. The plates were removed and a delicious-looking queen pudding was placed in front of us.

“I wonder if she will be up in Scotland?” he asked in conspiratorial undertones.

“She?”

“The mysterious American woman about whom the rumors are flying,” he whispered. “She certainly wouldn’t be invited to Balmoral, but I do hope to catch a glimpse of her. They say she is the height of fashion—which reminds me, have you seen much of your dear mother lately? I am inordinately fond of your dear mama.”

“Are you?” My hostility toward him melted a little.