It did surprise me, because Grenville was very choosy about whom he graced with country visits. The dark-haired, dark-eyed dandy shot me a look across the table as Lady Southwick signaled to her footman to serve me the sole.

After Donata's warnings, I expected Lady Southwick to pay me embarrassing attention, but, alas for Grenville, he eclipsed me. Lady Southwick spent the meal leaning to him, her bosom resting nearly in her plate, so that Grenville could look straight down her decolletage if he chose. Grenville kept his gaze firmly on his food.

The fish was tender and fresh, served with a hot, buttery sauce, welcome after my afternoon in the rain. The game birds that followed were equally good, and the meal ended with a tart heaped with late berries made piquant with lemon. In spite of her taste in decor, Lady Southwick apparently employed a fine chef.

Once the last plates had been taken away, Lady Southwick rose, and the ladies flowed out of the room, leaving the gentlemen alone.

I disliked the modern practice of ladies and gentlemen parting after supper. I'd always found more enjoyment in the company of the fairer sex. Even well-bred gentlemen were apt to grow boorish in their cups, make bodily noises, and emit odors.

One of the Mayfair men at the table already resembled an indolent satyr in the mural. By the rapidity with which he imbibed port, I predicted he'd soon be splayed like the dead boar in the foreground.

Rafe Godwin lit a cheroot, blew out smoke, and directed a his words at me. "You're from these parts, are you not, Lacey?"

The manner in which he said "these parts" told me he thought little of them. "I am, yes," I said. "My father's house is about five miles distant."

"How's your yield?" Godwin asked. "I hear that farming has been dreadful these last few years."