She was scarcely gone but an instant when the object of her concern summoned me to assume her vacant chair. The Duke ordered a clean plate to be placed before me and replenished my glass of Madeira to its brim. He then commanded all the various dishes to be brought to him, one by one, whereupon he did me the honour of serving me. I sat somewhat awkwardly as the Prince of the Blood delighted in laying slices of duck, pickles, cheeses and oysters before me.

‘The English have no taste for the food of our cooks. They complain of the sauces, that we are dishonest for disguising our meat,’ he remarked as he dropped a piece of cold roast lamb on to my plate. ‘But I should not hold it against your race, mademoiselle, for there are few qualities which I do not admire in Englishmen. You must eat, mon petit oiseau.’ Orléans gestured to me. Hesitantly, I raised my fork, feeling his eyes upon me. He continued to study me as I nibbled, as if I were some creature brought to him beneath a glass.

‘Has Madame de Buffon regaled you with her tales of our travels to London?’

‘Yes, monseigneur. She has related some to me.’

‘There are few places I love so well as your nation, Mademoiselle Lightfoot, for there a man of title possesses the liberty to live out his days as he pleases. He is not beholden to the King if he does not seek His Majesty’s favour; he is not made to serve him. He may come and go at his own whim. He may live in quiet seclusion upon his lands, if that is his fancy. I should like such a life well enough,’ he grunted.

‘Then perhaps, monseigneur, you might wish to return there soon?’ I offered in a spirit of true naivety.

A great laugh burst forth from him.

‘Your advice differs little from that of your relation,’ he declared, taking another mouthful of lamb.

I sat somewhat dumbfounded, not knowing if I had caused offence.

‘You are not at all like her.’ He leaned nearer to inspect me. There was a hint of teasing in his tone. ‘You are accomplished and beautiful, as frail and sweet as a butterfly. She is majestic . . . and calculating.’ He took a swallow from his glass. ‘I can never abandon France, mademoiselle. I shall die here, on French soil, but it will not be in service to the army.’

I believe I must have given him a confounded look, for after staring at me for a heavy moment, he continued: