“Local name for a peak over three thousand feet,” Binky said. “Georgie used to be up and down these munros like a bally mountain goat, didn’t you, old bean?”

I felt all those eyes on me, staring at me as an object of curiosity.

“You make me sound like the wild woman of the glen,” I said.

I noticed Mrs. Simpson give Earl a dig in the side and mutter something.

“We would be honored if you would accompany us tomorrow, Lady Georgiana,” Siegfried said. “Your expertise would be most welcome. And we shall bring ropes this time and by the grace of God we shall conquer the summit.”

He made it sound as if he was talking about Mont Blanc and not a Scottish hill only three thousand feet high, most of which involved simple scrambling.

Dinner passed pleasantly enough. The soup was delicious, there was enough beef to go around and even the neeps and tatties were commented upon as tasty. Talk turned to the speedboat and the monster. Binky’s opinion was that someone had resurrected the old legend to drive tourist trade up here.

“I’ve lived here all my life and never heard it mentioned until recently,” he said, “and I’ve certainly never seen it.”

“But you have to agree that the way the water in that lake moved suddenly, looked awfully like a big creature swimming,” the countess exclaimed. “What about that wake? Something had to have made those ripples.”

“A plane had just landed,” I pointed out, “and the loch goes from shallow to very deep just about there, so the waves do behave strangely with the right wind conditions.”

“I’m sure I saw a head,” the countess said. “A very large head.”

“Maybe it’s a submarine, spying on your speedboat,” the Prince of Wales said, turning to Digby and Paolo. “A rival for the world speed record, maybe.”

Dinner concluded with berry crumble and fresh cream followed by Welsh rarebit. We women followed Fig dutifully from the room to the drawing room, where coffee was waiting. Conchita came over to join me.

“We have not yet been introduced,” she said, those dark eyes flashing. “You are the daughter of this house?”

“I’m the sister of the current duke,” I said. “I’m Georgiana Rannoch.”

“And I am Conchita da Gama. From Brazil.”

“What are you doing in Scotland?”

“I make friends with Paolo in Italy. He needs money to pay for racing boat. I have much money,” she said. “My father, he own rubber plantations in Brazil and now he find oil on his land. Very lucky, no?”

No wonder Darcy was interested, I thought. He was penniless like me. She’d be a very desirable catch.

It was as if she was reading my thoughts. “This Mr. Darcy O’Mara,” she said, her eyes straying to the door, “he is handsome, do you not think? And the son of a lord, and Catholic.”