“And those damned police johnnies have finally departed, thank God. Blasted inconvenient of people to go and kill themselves over Christmas. And those wretched convicts, too. Time of peace and goodwill, isn’t that what it’s supposed to be?”

“Killed themselves?” Mrs. Upthorpe asked nervously. “Who killed themselves? Where?”

“Just a couple of unfortunate accidents in the area. Nothing to be alarmed about,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said hastily. “Have another scone, do. And Alice, bring us some more tea. This is getting cold.”

“And the convicts?” Mrs. Wexler interjected.

“A couple of men escaped from Dartmoor Prison, which is several miles from here. They’ll be far away by now. The police have combed the moors.”

“How exciting. Perhaps we’ll be taken hostage,” Cherie Wexler said and got a dig in the side from her mother.

“Well, something exciting has to happen or we’ll all die of boredom,” the girl retorted.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley leaped to her feet. “Georgiana—why don’t you take the young people now and make your plans?”

“We just got here, Mother. We’ve hardly eaten anything yet,” Monty said, his mouth half full of éclair.

“And I’m still hungry,” Junior Wexler said.

“Of course, I don’t mean to rush you,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “In that case, why don’t I take the grown-ups and give them a tour of the house. So many fine historical features.”

The Wexlers, Upthorpes and Rathbones rose obediently, but the dowager countess stayed put. “Does the woman think I’ve never seen an historic home before? I used to be a frequent guest at Blenheim and Longleat, and Albury Park was not too shabby either. Gardens by Capability Brown.”

“Lady Albury, I do realize that you’d find the stairs too much for you,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Perhaps you’d like Hortense to take you through to the little library. There is a nice fire and you’d find it more peaceful than being with the youngsters.”

“I like young people. Make me feel alive again,” the countess said. “I shall relish all the latest gossip from London. Go on, off you go.”

The adults departed dutifully, except for Sir Oswald, who was eating away merrily, quite oblivious to the fact that he smelled of pig. Lady Albury moved to the sofa, closer to Darcy and me. “So do tell me all the latest London scandal.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been in Scotland for the past few months,” I said.

“And I in South America,” Darcy said.

“But have you met this notorious American lady? Simpson, is that it?”

“Yes, I have met her,” I said. “And I think the term ‘lady’ is stretching the definition.”

She threw back her head and laughed, patting my hand. “I like you,” she said. “Good sense of humor like your father. And you, young man”—she turned to Darcy—“what were you doing in South America? Up to no good, I’ll wager.”