“Yes, we came out together, oh, a hundred years ago now.” Frances’s voice is light, her tones well rounded. My uncle laughs politely at her joke.

“I didn’t know that,” I murmur. “How interesting.”

“You’re a Langton of course,” she says, looking at me as though sizing up a horse she might like to buy. “Good breeding always tells.” Her gaze flickers towards Ben, standing with one shoulder resting against the door frame, Klaus hovering beside. “And bad blood will out.”

I don’t understand the slight, or why she’s looking at Ben and Klaus like they have crawled out from beneath a rock, but I feel a strong shudder of dislike pass through me and I eye the woman with distaste.

“You’re right, of course,” I agree. My mother would know that trouble was brewing from my casual tone, but this crowd are blissfully unaware. “But then, unlike so many of the aristocracy, my parents are not related. Criminal what all this snobbish inbreeding has led to, don’t you think?” My question hangs in the air like the challenge that it is.

A horrified silence is broken by the sound of laughter. Ursula finally turns away from the window. “Wonderful, Bea.” She exhales a stream of smoke. “Wonderful.” Her eyes snap around the room, landing on Frances with an expression of open dislike. “I think I need a drink,” she says shortly, and she leaves the room, with Klaus in her wake.

“Lady Bowling and I met in Milan,” Leo says quickly, his words spilling into the tense silence. “I suggested she and her friend Sir Hugh stop off here on their way to Rome. We’re having a few people over for dinner tonight to welcome them.”

“I see,” I say. “So you are just … passing through?”

The smile Frances gives me is ice-cold. “Unfortunately, yes,” she says in wintery tones. “Such a shame we won’t get to know one another better.”

“Yes,” I agree with a smile that shows my teeth. “Such a shame.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Odious woman,” Ursula hisses while pouring drinks. “These frigid, fascist types make my blood boil.”

Across the terrace, the fascist in question is serenely accepting a glass from my uncle. They are surrounded by people I don’t know, a smarter set than we typically see at the villa.

“Who are all these people?” I ask.

Ursula snorts. “They’re your uncle’s friends,” she says derisively. “Dull, dull, dull, and painfully bourgeois.”

“I wonder where Ben is?” I say. After the scene in the drawing room he slipped away and he hasn’t returned since.

“I’m sure he will be here soon,” Klaus says. “He’s probably just trying to get used to the idea of Sir Hugh being here.”

“Who is this Sir Hugh?” I ask.

Klaus looks surprised. “No one told you?” I shake my head. “Sir Hugh Falmouth. The artist, you know?”