Dot disappeared into the ward with a chuckle. Margot followed her ears down the corridor, to the entrance of a small administrative room in which two women stood. The younger was the one doing the shouting, her words complete with a few uniquely Gallic gestures of her hands. She was dressed in serviceable grey, like the nurses, but jewels winked at her ears and from her fingers. And her curly blond hair had been shorn above the shoulders. Somehow Margot couldn’t imagine the strict matrons allowing that for just any nurse or volunteer.

The matron in front of her, in a crisp white apron over a dowdy grey dress, wore a pinched expression on her face. “I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace, but I’m sure whatever you’re on about has a reasonable explanation.”

Margot leaned into the doorframe. “She said that she’s tired of being given only the neat and tidy jobs after years volunteering here, just because her husband’s a duke, and that if it wouldn’t be too ironic for words, she’d complain to him of this preferential treatment. But then any changes would be a result of more preferential treatment, and so she’s thoroughly stymied, and she knows nothing will change, and so she’ll just shout about it for a moment, get it out of her system, and then pretend to be a reasonable British lady again.”

The duchess spun on her, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “Had I known someone was handy who could understand me, I would have made the rant in Monegasque.”

Margot lifted her brows. “My Italian is passable too—I probably still could have pieced the gist of it together. Je suis désolée.”

Her Grace tilted her head and studied her. “Northern France or Belgium?”

“Louvain.” Margot mirrored her position. “Given the reference to Monegasque, may I assume Monaco?”

“Oui.” She smiled. “Though not recently. I suppose eventually I ought to claim to be from either Yorkshire, where my father lives, or the Cotswolds, where I now do.” The lady held out a hand, masculine style. “Brook Wildon.”

“The Duchess of Stafford!” the ward matron practically shouted, exasperation bringing her up onto the balls of her feet. As if ready to pounce on Margot if she dared to greet so lofty a personage by name.

Margot shook the duchess’s hand. “I believe you’ve met my brother at one of his concerts. Lukas De Wilde. And I am Margot.”