“English is such a silly language,” Paolo said again. He bowed to me. “Arrivederci. Until we meet again, Lady Georgiana.” And he was gone.

“Belinda,” I said as she turned to face me with a big smile on her face. “You have a frightful nerve. How can I entertain this visiting American? I know very little about racehorses, and he’ll expect to be meeting with you.”

“Don’t be silly, darling.” Belinda put a comforting hand on my arm and steered me toward the stairs. “He’s not really here to buy racehorses. He’s in oil or something. I met him at Crockford’s when I was having a little flutter last night, and I agreed to go to dinner with him because the poor lamb is in town on business and he hates to dine alone. But of course I couldn’t tell Paolo that. He’s madly jealous.”

“So you’ve stuck me with an unknown American, who is going to be disappointed that I’m not you and is probably expecting more than dinner.”

“Of course not.” We had reached the bathroom, from which steam was now billowing. “He’s from the Midwest and the only thing that’s likely to happen to you is that you’ll die of boredom. He’ll be so impressed when he finds out that he’s dining with the king’s cousin. And you’ll get a lovely dinner and good wines. I’m doing you a favor, really.”

I laughed. “Belinda, when have you ever done anybody a favor? You are one of the world’s great manipulators.”

“You’re probably right.” She sighed. “But you will do it for me?” She almost dragged me up the last of the stairs.

I sighed. “I suppose so. What have I got to lose?”

“I don’t know. What have you?” She regarded me quizzically. I blushed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t done it yet! Georgiana, I despair of you. Last time I saw you and Darcy, you appeared to be very chummy.”

“The last time I saw him I thought we were chummy too,” I said, feeling a black cloud of gloom settling over me. “But he was in hospital at the time, remember. Weak and recovering from a gunshot wound. The moment he came out of hospital he went home to Ireland to recuperate and that’s the last I’ve seen of him. Not even a postcard.”

“I don’t think he’s the postcard-writing type,” Belinda said. “Don’t worry, he’ll turn up again, like the proverbial bad penny. Darcy’s as much an opportunist as I am. He’s probably found someone to host him on a yacht off the French Riviera.”