Nigel materialized at my side with a steaming mug of mulled wine. “There’s champagne if you’d rather,” he shouted over the party. “No, this is lovely, thanks. Cheers!” I raised my cup in salute. “You’re looking splendid this evening, I must say. Where on earth did you get the outfit?” He looked down with a kind of mocking pride at his Edwardian dinner clothes, brocade waistcoat, floppy tie, and all. “Oxfam,” he said with a grin, naming the charitable organization that runs secondhand shops all over England. “They do cater to the poor and needy, don’t they? You’re rather grand, yourself.” I’d settled for some modest and ancient diamond studs in my ears, but I was reasonably pleased with my appearance, and touched at Nigel’s appreciation. “Thank you, my dear. But I’m dying to see Inga’s new dress. Where is she?” He gestured with his head toward the other side of the room. I gasped. The “smashing frock” was a little—very little—peach satin number that clung in all the right places and revealed just how marvelous those long, long legs really were.
