“Righty-ho, then,” he said again. “Jolly good. Rome is lovely this time of year. Wouldn’t mind being there myself in fact.”

“Reggie!” His sister pulled a horrified face, delighted to be appalled. “It isn’t jolly good, it’s a terrible scandal!”

“Then why are you all grinning about it?”

The three girls exchanged a look, one of those looks that somehow managed to combine long-suffering patience with a hearty dose of feminine scorn. They must teach those at school along with tromping on a chap’s toes during the quadrille.

“Because,” said Lizzy Reid, “without scandal, what would there be for us to talk about?”

Turnip suspected a trick question. “Your lessons?” he suggested.

“Oh, Reggie,” said Sally sadly.

Blast. It had been a trick question.

“Now,” said Sally, getting down to business, “let us discuss my travel arrangements.”

“What travel arrangements?” said Turnip warily.

“When you take me home for Christmas, of course,” said Sally, as though it were a forgone conclusion. “You can call for me the morning of the twentieth. That should leave plenty of time to drive up to Suffolk.”

“Oh no.” Turnip wasn’t falling for that one. He folded his arms across his chest. “Can’t be done, I’m afraid. The Dowager Duchess of Dovedale is having a house party. Wouldn’t want to cross the Dowager Duchess.”

Even Sally wouldn’t want to cross fans with the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale. The woman had a tongue of steel and drank the blood of young virgins for breakfast. Well, the blood-drinking had never been proved. But she could be jolly nasty when she chose, and she usually did choose. That cane of hers left quite a welt.

“Pooh,” said Sally. Pooh? Turnip regarded his little sister incredulously. When had it come to this? “Parva Magna is on the way. You can drop me off home and then go on to Girdings. Do say yes,” she wheedled. “We’ll have such fun along the way. You can buy me lemonades and tell me all about your latest waistcoats.”