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waved a hand in an irritable gesture of dismissal. “We’re dining in the yellow salon. I don’t want those brats creating havoc in the dining room.”
    “Oh, dear,” Harriet murmured as her grandfather stalked from the library. “Tom . . . Grace, just try not to say anything for a while. Sit still, keep your hands in your laps unless you’re eating, and eat slowly. Don’t gobble, and don’t grab.” She pushed them in front of her.
    “Turkeys gobble,” Grace said, seizing her brother’s hand. “Children don’t.” She tugged Tom to the door.
    “For some reason, she always has to have the last word.” Harriet shook her head in resignation. “I’m surprised the Duke invited them downstairs tonight. Normally, he wouldn’t think of it when we have guests.”
    “Perhaps he doesn’t think of me as a guest,” Julius suggested, offering his arm. “And perhaps soon you will not, either. Shall we, ma’am?”
    Harriet laid her hand on his arm, annoyed that she could come up with no suitably repressive response. To her relief, the Duke seemed to have recovered his good humor as they took their places around the table in the yellow salon. It was a more intimate settingthan the dining hall, where forty covers could be laid comfortably under the brilliant light from the succession of chandeliers. The Duke sat at the head of the oval table, Harriet on his right, Grace next to her. The Earl took his place on the Duke’s left, with Tom beside him. The twins hated to be separated, but they were sufficiently subdued to accept their places without protest.
    “So you’ve been at Charlbury for a week, my lord?” Harriet observed, taking up her soupspoon.
    “His grace was kind enough to invite me for an extended stay,” he replied, deftly sliding Tom’s neglected napkin onto the boy’s lap just as Harriet was about to remind the child.
    “And very good company you are,” Lionel declared, taking a sip of his wine with a considering frown. “This is the ’67, Mallow?”
    “Indeed, sir. As you ordered.” The butler lifted the decanter. “I thought it robust enough for the shoulder of mutton . . .” A question mark lingered.
    The Duke inhaled the bouquet, took another sip, then nodded. “Yes, definitely. How many bottles do we have?”
    “Six cases, sir. If your grace recalls, your grace laid it down just after Lord Edward went away to school.”
    A spasm crossed the Duke’s face at this mention of his dead son. “I recall,” he said shortly. “How many guests are you expecting tomorrow, Harriet?”
    “I followed your list to the letter, sir.” She buttered a roll. “We will be forty in all. Great-aunt Augusta is expected before noon tomorrow. I understand she’s staying overnight with her friends in Witney. She prefers to do the journey in easy stages.”
    “Milksop,” Lady Augusta’s brother muttered with a derisive sniff. “The woman’s ten years younger than I am. Can’t think why we had to invite her, anyway.”
    “We do have to have a nominal hostess, sir,” Harriet reminded him.
    “Can’t think why. You’re perfectly capable . . . do all the work as it is.”
    “Yes, sir, but I am neither married nor a widow. People would talk.” He knew this perfectly well and, she suspected, would have been horrified if she had suggested such a breach of convention herself, but the Duke found his sister a serious irritant. She made much of what she insisted on calling her frail constitution, even while consuming large quantities of sweetmeats and glasses of ratafia while languishing upon a daybed among paisley shawls and bottles of sal volatile.
    Julius stepped smoothly into the momentary tense silence with a question to the Duke about the coverts, and Harriet gratefully continued with her dinner, monitoring the twins as she did so. They were hungry enough to concentrate mostly on their plates, and the meal passed without further incident. The first cover was replaced with a Rhenish cream