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attention was monopolized by a young lady who clearly thought him a delightful dinner companion. Camille smiled, listening to the giggles, wondering if she had ever felt that young, which was rather sad as she was only four and twenty. Still, a man like Lord Tapscott, a shocking flirt, did not come into rural Kent every day and Camille could hardly blame the girl for her enthusiasm. Good-looking rakes were hard to find. His lordship would make a thrilling change from the usual country squires with their preoccupation with shooting, fishing, and horses. Her own dear Ned had told her that she would probably find his neck of the woods dreadfully dull, filled with the worthy and the wordy. Back in France, when the world seemed to be going to hell, the rural charms of sleepy Lymstock seemed like a mirage of sweet sanity.
    But now, looking around the table, Camille understood what he’d meant. The local gentry were kind-hearted, but there was an element of the parochial she had not encountered before. She wondered how it would feel, living among these people, after twelve months. More, she wondered if she would retain her sense of perspective after twelve years.
    ‘Well, Lady Durham,’ Lord Duffy, sitting on her left hand side, said jovially as he helped himself to a large portion of sliced beef. ‘What do you think of the area?’
    ‘From what I have seen, it is charming. Such views. I have not had the opportunity to explore as yet, there is much to do at Kirkham, but I am sure I will find it all to my liking.’
    ‘Aye, tis a nice enough place. Do you shoot?’
    For a moment the question threw her. The memory of the conflict she had left behind was still too fresh in her mind, but then she realized that he was talking about hunting. ‘I am a reasonable shot.’ She was an excellent shot. Her father had made sure of that.
    ‘Good, good. Marvelous hunting across the moors. Old Leadbeater is planning a shoot in two weeks time. Bit of a tradition.’ Lord Duffy deposited an enormous forkful of meat into his mouth and chewed doggedly. For some reason Camille was reminded of a cow, but that might have been because his lordship looked almost bovine himself. When he swallowed, he continued on where he’d left off. ‘The locals all gather for a day of it. Early start, late finish, but by God we bag a few.’
    ‘It sounds very interesting,’ Camille said politely, resolving to be busy on the day of Leadbeater’s - Had she met him? Was he here? - shoot. She had never quite grasped why the English enjoyed the wholesale slaughter of their bird and animal life, but decided it might be wise to keep such thoughts to herself. Despite the fact that she was half English, she had never lived in England, only coming for the occasional visit. Some of the ways of her father’s people were, as her mother used to say incompréhensible et étrange .
    ‘Wife doesn’t shoot,’ Lord Duffy added gloomily, preparing to deposit another enormous forkful of beef in his mouth, ‘but then, that’s the ladies, hey?’
    Which made Camille wonder what he thought she was.
    On her other side, Tapscott touched her arm lightly. Turning her head, she met his smiling blue eyes. ‘It’s because you’re French,’ he explained kindly. ‘Everybody knows that French women are quite different to English women.’
    Camille narrowed her own eyes at him, suspecting devilment. ‘Indeed? How so, my lord?’
    ‘Oh, well,’ he waved his own fork, laden with nothing more taxing than a small slice of roast chicken, ‘it’s because you’re foreign , you see. People will be quite happy to excuse foreign ladies anything. I should take advantage of that if I were you.’ And he gave her a melting smile, before slipping the chicken into his mouth. He did not look like a cow when he chewed, Camille noted. He managed to retain his quite absurd good looks even when his jaw was moving rhythmically.
    ‘And how would I take advantage of it?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know.