“Admittedly, I don’t really know yet. But I will. The rest will fall into place,” Camille said with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “I shall cross those awkward roads when they present themselves. I can’t be expected to know every minor detail as of yet, but I am certain I shall come up with something brilliant.”

“As brilliant as hiring actors to play the part of your family for Christmas?”

Camille clenched her teeth. Beryl had an annoying habit of being entirely too sensible on occasion. “Even more brilliant, I should think.”

“You’ll need it. Your current brilliant idea is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. It can’t possibly succeed.”

“Goodness, Beryl, at this time of year in particular, one should have a little faith.”

Beryl stared in obvious disbelief. “Faith?”

“Yes, faith,” Camille said firmly. “Before the wedding, I suspect, I will confess all. He is already smitten with me, and by then, I have every confidence he will forgive this tiny farce on my part—”

Beryl choked on her tea. “Tiny?”

“Relatively tiny.” Camille nodded. “He will probably find it most amusing. He is easily amused. And it’s not as if I am misrepresenting who I am or who we are. Not really. Our family lineage is exactly as I have said. It’s just the individual personalities that can be a bit . . . unorthodox. Mother and Uncle Basil, that is. In truth, I am simply trying to protect the poor man and give him the traditional English Christmas that he expects and deserves. In many ways, it is my Christmas gift to him. And I am confident we shall have a good laugh about all this. Eventually.”

“You do realize you’re quite mad.”

“Or quite clever.” Camille tapped her temple with her forefinger. “Like a fox.”

“An insane fox, perhaps. You haven’t thought this through, Camille. This is another one of your impulsive adventures.”

“Nonsense. I gave up impulsive adventures at least a year ago.”

“After the Brighton Incident?”

“Yes, well, probably. It’s of no significance now.”

She did so hate to be reminded of what her family referred to as “the Brighton Incident.” It had not been her finest hour and embodied all the errors in judgment she’d ever made rolled into one, even if it had seemed so delightful when she had thought of it. The incident had skated on the sharp edge of full-fledged scandal involving an ill-conceived wager prompted by entirely too much champagne, two of her close friends who were even more inebriated than she, a masked out-of-doors ball and costumes that came perilously close to no clothing at all. They had only been saved from complete and utter ruin because their faces were hidden, they had relatively spotless reputations (who would have suspected them of all people?) and it was the off-season. Few knew the names of the ladies behind the masks.