“Yes, well, that was rather crass of me, wasn’t it?” he said. “I’m sorry that we got off on the wrong foot. You see, it never occurred to me that you were Binky’s sister. I mean, dash it all, he’d always talked of you as a skinny, mousy little thing. So I never dreamed that this gorgeous creature could be associated with Castle Rannoch.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me,” I said.

“Really? It usually works rather well, I find. But I should introduce myself. I’m Hugo. Hugo Beasley-Bottome.”

“Dear me,” I said. “I bet you were teased about that name at school, weren’t you?”

“Beaten to a pulp, constantly. Your brother was one of the house prefects when I first arrived and he was rather kind to me, so I’ve always, y’know, looked up to him.” He gave what he hoped was a winning smile. “And I only know you as Binky’s sister.”

“I’m Georgiana,” I said, not prepared to give him the more familiar form of my name.

He held out his hand. “Delighted to meet you, old bean. I understand poor Binky is laid up with a mangled foot. Rotten luck, what? But I look forward to being shown around by you.”

“You wouldn’t like it,” I said. “It’s positively medieval.”

His fair skin flushed at this. “Oh, look here. Couldn’t we forget that disastrous first meeting and start all over?”

I had taken an instant dislike to him but upbringing won out and forced me to say graciously, “Of course.”

“You’ve been out riding already.” He looked me up and down again in that frankly appraising way I found disturbing. He was mentally undressing me again.

“No, I always sleep in my jodhpurs,” I said.

He laughed. “Oh, très droll. I like a girl with wit. I say, do have some breakfast and join me. I hate eating alone.”

I remembered how those words had brought nothing but trouble to me. It was because Belinda had told me that men who came to London hated eating alone that I had come up with my stupid idea of an escort service in the first place. I was tempted to say I wasn’t hungry and leave him to it, but the thought of a good breakfast, after months of austerity, toast and tea, was too enticing.

“Please do sit down,” I said. “Your kedgeree is getting cold.”

I went over to the sideboard and helped myself to kidneys, bacon and fried eggs. If this was economizing, then Binky and Fig weren’t doing too badly.

“So where do you live, Mr. Bottomly-Beasley?” I asked.

“It’s Beasley-Bottome,” he corrected. “And my family has a place in Sussex. I have a pied-à-terre in London.”

“And do you work?”