“I will count on it,” Lord Darlington replied. “Indeed, I will insist upon it. You may dismiss the staff.”

“Thank you, sir,” Perceval said with a sharp nod.

Lord Darlington turned and noticed Maggie on the steps. “The Fitz-whos?” she asked.

“Maggie. Good to see you up and about this fine morning. I take it your travel malaise has lifted?” Lord Darlington held out his hand and helped Maggie up from the stairs. “And what, may I ask, are you wearing?” he asked, taking in her rather eccentric outfit as she stood up.

“It’s the latest thing from Paris. Isn’t it delightful? It’s Aunt Daphne–approved.”

Lord Darlington’s face was less delighted. “Well, I’m not certain I approve. Though I am glad to see you, regardless of your attire. You will not wear that in England—and certainly not while we have houseguests.”

“All right, Father. I will change if you insist. But first you must tell me, who are the Fitzhughs? And why are we hosting them with such fanfare?”

“You may have heard me speak of my days serving in the army during the Second Boer War in South Africa.”

Endlessly, Maggie thought, and hoped she hadn’t inadvertently rolled her eyes, a gesture her father deplored.

“Reginald Fitzhugh was my closest friend and during a particularly violent skirmish, he saved my life. Ever since then we have been closer than brothers.”

“Then why have I never met him?” Maggie asked.

“Reggie went on to make his fortune in diamond trading, which required him to stay close to the diamond mines of South Africa,” Lord Darlington explained. “We have corresponded avidly for the last twenty-five years.”

“And now he’s dead?”

“Sadly, yes. His wife also passed on many years before, and that leaves his children with no one to care for them but us.”