The four sets of feet belonged to four bewigged and powdered footmen, who bore on their shoulders a litter covered with enough gold leaf to beggar Cleopatra. On a throne-like chair in the center of the litter, draped in purple silk fringed with gold, perched none other than the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale, the woman who had launched a thousand ships — as their crews rowed for their lives in the opposite direction. She inspired horses to rear, jaded roués to blanch beneath their rouge, and young fops to jump out of ballroom windows. And she enjoyed every moment of it.

The skimpy dresses in vogue had struck the Dowager Duchess as dangerously republican. The Dowager preferred the fashions of her youth, so she had never stopped wearing them. In honor of Christmas Eve, she was garbed in a gown of rich green brocade glittering with gold thread. Her hair had been piled into a coiffure reminiscent of the work of agitated spiders, crowned with a jaunty sprig of mistletoe.

As the Duchess rapped her fabled cane against the side of the litter, her four bearers came to a practiced halt.

“Good evening, Grandmama,” said Charlotte primly. “You do remember Cousin Robert — ”

“Of course, I remember him! I may have lost my looks, but I still have my wits. So, you’ve come home at last, have you? Took you long enough.”

“Had I known I would receive such a gracious welcome, I would have come sooner.”

“Hogwash,” the Duchess snorted. She gestured imperiously with her cane. “Don’t stand there gawking! Help me out of this thing!”

The footmen stood, impassive, holding their gilded poles, as Lieutenant Fluellen rushed into attendance.

“Wouldn’t a wheeled chair have sufficed?” inquired the prodigal Duke blandly.

The Dowager paused with her hand on Lieutenant Fluellen’s arm, one leg extended over the side. “And break my neck on the stairs? You only wish, my boy! I used to have these lot” — she waved a dismissive hand at the footmen — “carrying me around, but I didn’t want them to get too familiar. Gave them ideas above their station.”