“As I was about to point out,” Mr. Henderson continued, “just because one is a prince does not mean one knows every other prince or, in this case, grand duke who is floating about the continent. Isn’t that so, Your Highness?”

“Well, I—” Nikolai began.

“I knew a grand duke once,” Miss Murdock said thoughtfully. “Or at least he said he was a grand duke.”

Mrs. Montgomery-Wells shook her head. “You can’t always be certain, my dear. One should always ask for credentials of some sort. They very often carry, oh, medals and the like. Great, gaudy things worn on sashes. Most impressive.” She turned toward Nikolai. “Isn’t that right, Your Highness?”

“Please, Lady Briston,” Nikolai began. “As we are among friends, I would much prefer not to be addressed by royal titles, ‘Your Highness’ and such.”

Mrs. Montgomery-Wells sucked in a sharp breath. “My word, Your Highness, we couldn’t possibly. You are a prince, after all. It wouldn’t be the least bit proper.”

“Surely, Lady Briston,” Nikolai said in a kind manner. “As I am traveling as Count Pruzinsky, and it is Christmas, we can relax formality.”

“But, Your Highness”—Mrs. Montgomery-Wells leaned forward and patted Nikolai’s hand—“we all have roles to play and yours is the prince. If we do not play our roles as scripted, why, they’ll be nothing but confusion and . . . and anarchy.”

“Can’t have anarchy,” Mr. Henderson said darkly, as if hordes of anarchists would stream through the doors of the parlor at any minute, should formality lapse and the prince be addressed as anything less than royal.

Nikolai stared. Obviously, the poor man was too confused even to smile and nod.

Beryl sighed. “We’d best—”

“So much for everything going smoothly,” Camille muttered. She and Beryl quickly crossed the room and returned to their chairs.

“Mother,” she began in a firm tone, “we do want Nikolai to feel at home here. As he cannot be with his own family in his own country this year at Christmas, it would be lovely if we made him feel as much a part of ours as possible. You don’t call Delilah Lady Hargate or Beryl Lady Dunwell.” Camille emphasized her sisters’ names in the hope that the actress might remember somebody’s name. “And you certainly don’t call me Lady Lydingham.”

Mrs. Montgomery-Wells’s gaze slid from Camille to Beryl. She lowered her voice and spoke in an aside to the prince. “They look so much alike, don’t you agree? Why, I can scarcely tell them apart. It’s most confusing.”

Nikolai smiled weakly and nodded.

“Although that one”—the older woman nodded at Beryl—“has a look in her eye as if she is keeping a most amusing secret, whereas the other one”—Mrs. Montgomery-Wells’s eyes narrowed—“she looks as if she is about to explode in some sort of nervous fit.”

Beryl coughed in an obvious attempt to keep from laughing.