“Honestly, the upkeep is a grind,” she said conspiratorially, as if she dusted the gargoyle carvings herself. “And terribly expensive. But I’ve had so much fun curating it since we’ve returned. We’ve added costumed Tudor docents, and calligraphy workshops, and the National Portrait Gallery is sponsoring an Elizabeth of Bohemia exhibit in our Long Gallery right now that is splendid, if you want to peek. And having the film, of course, was tremendous. I’ve also remanicured the lawns so we can charge admission to the public.” She put her hand to her heart. “We’re so fortunate,” she added. “It’s imperative to give back. Anyway, please go have fun! There’s croquet on the back lawn, and an actual game of whist in the parlor. Isn’t it marvelous?”

With a peck on Nick’s cheek and a squeeze of my hand, she floated off to see her other guests, as a gloved waiter deposited some kind of signature cocktail in my hand. It smelled like warm spiced cider, but had been generously augmented with rum. If I had to be unhappy, at least I could be unhappy with a drink in my hand.

Nick turned to me and raised his brows. “I don’t know if I’ve fully prepared you for this lot,” he said. “You’re going to want to drink that fairly quickly.”

We pushed through a crush of formally dressed partygoers into a wood-paneled library, complete with a roaring fire and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Almost immediately, a nearby cluster of pasty men in suits stopped arguing and parted to receive Nick as if they’d been waiting for him to complete the picture all night.

“And, right on cue,” Nick said under his breath, before extending a hand to one of them. “Baxter, hello.”

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, eh, old boy?” said Baxter, clubbing Nick’s back with a meaty hand. He seemed like he’d started his New Year’s drinking early and was too blotto to pretend to care about me. “We were talking about Doris Tuesday’s latest,” he said. “Mixing up Manchester United and Manchester City? Ghastly. Seems like Tuesday’s got a case of the Mondays.”

The three other men guffawed as if they’d never heard anything funnier, and I watched as Aggressive Pleasantness settled over Nick’s features like a fog rolling in over the ocean.

“When it’s your turn, do us a favor and tell the PM to get stuffed from time to time, okay, old bean?” Baxter said. “And if you could put in a good word and get us all antique country piles of our own…” As he waved his arm drunkenly toward what looked like a priceless tapestry hung near the massive carved fireplace, his glass knocked into Nick’s and splashed rum cocktail all over Nick’s white shirt.

“Bloody hell,” Baxter said.