He surveyed his empty glass with a sigh. Then a wicked smile spread over his face. He crossed over to the desk, quickly purloined a couple of sheets of estate notepaper, and was sitting by the fire again when the other two returned.

‘Where exactly is Yorkshire?’ Meryl asked Benedict as they shared a bottle of champagne.

‘In England. That’s all I know. Why?’

She chuckled. ‘It’s where my prospective husband lives.’

‘You actually had a reply?’

‘It came this morning.’ She yawned and leaned back against the leather arm of Benedict’s huge sofa. She was lying lengthways on it while he sat sprawled at the other end.

‘No kidding!’ he said. ‘Who?’

‘Jarvis Larne. A lord, no less. He lives in Larne Castle in Yorkshire.’

Benedict took the letter from her and scanned it hilariously. ‘He’s very upfront about his poverty,’ he noted. ‘Castle falling down, cracks everywhere, whisky running out-heiress urgently required.’

‘It’s a joke. I bet he doesn’t exist at all.’

‘He does,’ Benedict said unexpectedly. ‘I’ve seen the name in a book of English peerages I bought in case I ever get any titled customers. It’s on that table.’ She gave it to him and he began flicking through the pages. ‘Here we are. Viscount Larne of Larne Castle. Hmm! Quite a pedigree.’

He began to read aloud, “‘Jarvis, Lord Larne, twenty-second viscount, age thirty-three, inherited the title when he was twenty-one.” Hey, fancy being a lord at twenty-one. All that droit de seigneur.’

‘What?’

‘The ancient feudal right of the lord to have any virgin on the estate.’

‘You made that up!’

‘No way. It’s the tradition. It goes back centuries. That’s why half the estate workers look alike. When you give him a son you won’t be able to tell him from the others.’