Camille’s teeth clenched. Mrs. Montgomery-Wells was very close to the truth.

Mr. Henderson sighed. “Now, now, Millicent—”

“Florence,” Miss Murdock said.

“Eloise,” Beryl offered.

Camille cast her a scathing look. Beryl smiled innocently.

“Constance,” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells said firmly.

Camille bit back a groan. Her comment to her sister pounded in her head like a bad refrain. Or a curse: “It’s only the first day.”

“As I was about to say,” Mr. Henderson began again, “as he is our guest, and we are among friends—”

“Family,” Camille said.

“Family, then.” Mr. Henderson nodded. “If the prince does not wish to be addressed as ‘Your Highness,’ then we should honor his wishes. Even if ‘yet looks he like a king.’ ”

“Richard the Second,” Miss Murdock noted.

Mr. Henderson favored her with an approving look. For her knowledge of Shakespeare, no doubt, and not for her ample bosom, which threatened to escape from the altogether too low cut of her bodice. Still, didn’t his gaze seem directed somewhat lower than her face? Camille shuddered at the thought that she had traded one lascivious uncle for another. Although, admittedly, the man was playing his part accurately.

“But I digress,” Mr. Henderson continued. “I once met a prince in India, son of the ruling raj of the province, who felt exactly the same way about traveling sans retainers or . . .”

Camille breathed a sigh of relief. If nothing else, the actor could be counted on to fill the conversation with relatively interesting anecdotes about whatever happened to cross his mind. Whether they were real or imagined, Camille didn’t particularly care. In that respect too, he was much like the genuine Uncle Basil.

“Admittedly, on occasion the prince’s penchant for . . .”

And just like with the genuine Uncle Basil’s stories, Camille allowed her mind to drift. As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, Grayson was right. This scheme of hers was not at all well thought out. Once again she had jumped into something without giving it due consideration. Of course this was on a scale rather larger than usual. Typically, her ill-advised impulses leaned toward rash purchases of things she couldn’t possibly use but seemed exciting at the time. There was the life-size mechanical monkey, which had struck her as charming when she had purchased it, but sitting in her parlor was really rather unsettling. The eyes did tend to follow one. There was the ill-fated expedition she had invested in to recover the lost gold of South America. It was most exciting, even if, as it turned out, not entirely legitimate. Then, of course, there were all those llamas . . . and the incident at Brighton, which she refused to think about. In each and every instance, it had seemed like such a good idea at the time.