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Winifred.”
    â€œStill as plump as ever?”
    â€œWell endowed is the polite way to put it. And, let’s see, one of Charles’s cousins is due in tomorrow from Chicago, or some outlandish place. We’re going to meet him at Southampton.”
    â€œAnd that’s it?”
    â€œYes. Social activities will pick up no doubt when they move to London next week. Charles and I hope to miss that though, thank God. We’re planning a walking trip through Greece.”
    Fenton’s smile was sardonic. “Young Winifred better work fast.”
    Roger nodded as he chewed. “Bit of a scene brewing, if you ask me. His nibs and Hanna are keen as paint about joining the Grevilles to the Suttons. They keep pushing poor Charles and Winifred into the rose gardens every night to walk under the moon. Rather like pushing a couple of puppies out of the house. Not a thing’s come of it. Charles can’t think of a word to say to her. Anyway, he’s . . . well . . . he has other matters on his mind. It’s all rather hopeless. Omnia amor vincit —unless you’re the son of an earl. Going to Greece might be just what he needs. One’s troubles seem terribly puny in the shadow of the Parthenon.”
    The door opened, and two servants came into the room, carrying more food on covered salvers. Lady Mary Sutton, Marchioness of Dexford, and her daughter, the Most Honorable Winifred Sutton, followed them, Lady Mary a tall, bony woman with a sharp, birdlike head, talking a blue streak in staccato sentences, hands waving to the rhythm of her words. Her daughter trailed after her in silent resignation.
    â€œAh!” Lady Mary shouted. “Both brothers Wood-Lacy! How nice! Fenton, you handsome rogue! I hear such naughty stories! My nephew Albert Fitzroy is in the Guards, you know. Grenadiers! Can’t possibly be true, can they? Oh, dear, no! Well, here you are, and I shall get at the truth, never fear. Say hello to Fenton, Winifred.”
    â€œHello, Fenton,” Winifred said, almost in a whisper. “It’s very nice seeing you again.” Her soft unhappy eyes met Fenton’s, and then she dropped her gaze quickly, a blush appearing on her plump cheeks.
    Pretty, Fenton was thinking. A bit too buxom and padded at the hips, but she would bloom when the baby fat left her. She would be Alexandra’s age—just turned eighteen. Ripe for the marriage block.
    He smiled pleasantly at her. “I’m happy that you remember me, Winifred.”
    â€œHow could she ever forget,” her mother cried in her birdy squawk. “Gave the child her first kiss! Sweet sixteen! Most gallant of you, Fenton. Most gallant!”
    He could barely recall the incident. An avuncular peck on the cheek at her birthday party. He had been invited by her eldest brother, Andrew, a good friend from Sandhurst. Now she was a woman, and a mate must be found. He felt sorry for her. The walks in the moon-drenched rose garden with Charles must be agony for her: a young woman longing to be loved; Charles silent and moody, wishing with all his heart that he were in the rose gardens of Burgate House walking beside Lydia Foxe.
    â€œThat’s a charming frock, Winifred,” he said. “It’s very becoming.”
    â€œTh-thank you,” Winifred stammered.
    Roger choked on a piece of broiled kidney and coughed it up into his napkin. “Excuse me,” he blurted.
    Lady Mary dismissed the apology with a wave of her taloned hand. “Nonsense, dear boy! Better to cough than to strangle, I always say.”
    It would be a good match for Charles, Fenton mused, and he could understand Lord Stanmore’s desire for it. The Marquess of Dexford was not only a rich man with an ancient title, but also a possible prime minister should the Conservatives ever regain power. Winifred was the marquess’s youngest child and only daughter. He had four sons. No problem of handing down the