“Of course. I adore that woman. I worship the ground she treads upon. She has provided me with more material for my columns than any other human being. Such a deliciously naughty life she has led.”

The hostility returned. “I see very little of her these days,” I said. “I believe she is still in Germany.”

“Oh no, my dear. She’s been in England for the past couple of weeks at least. I spotted her at the Café Royal the other evening. And she sang with Noel Coward at the Café de Paris the other night. There is a rumor he’s writing a play for her. You wouldn’t happen to know if that’s true, would you?”

“You obviously know more about her than I do,” I said, feeling ridiculously hurt that she had been in London and hadn’t contacted me once. Not that she had contacted me for months on end when I was growing up or away at school. The maternal instinct never ran strongly through her veins, I suspect.

I managed to eat my meringue without shattering white bits all over me and also managed a couple of polite answers to Mr. Beverley’s persistent questions over coffee. With great relief I drained my cup and called over the steward to pay my bill.

“Already taken care of, your ladyship,” the steward said.

I looked around the car, a little flustered over who might have been treating me to lunch. It certainly wasn’t Mr. Beverley. He was counting out his money onto the tablecloth. Then I decided that perhaps Sir William might have arranged this, trying to soften the blow of my having to leave London in disgrace, I suppose.

I rose and nodded to Mr. Beverley, who also staggered to his feet. “My lady, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it was to make your acquaintance,” he said. “And I do hope that this will be the first of many meetings. Who knows, perhaps you will be free to take tea with me one day while I am at the inn. There is a delightful little teahouse nearby. The Copper Kettle. Do you know it?”

“I usually take tea with the family when I am home,” I said, “but I’m sure we’ll bump into each other at some stage, if you are planning to stay in Scotland long. Maybe at one of the shoots?”

At this he turned pale. “Oh, deary me, no. I do not relish killing things, Lady Georgiana. Such a barbaric custom.”

I almost reminded him that he had tucked into the pheasant with obvious relish and that somebody had had to kill it at some stage, but I was more anxious to make an exit while I could.