Jerking in surprise, she heard the resultant clatter of silverware. A footman addressed her clumsiness immediately, laying out clean forks and spoons, and bending to retrieve the fallen utensils.

“Wh-what is that?” Lillian asked of no one in particular, unable to tear her gaze from the revolting sight.

“A calf’s head,” one of the ladies replied in a tone laden with condescending amusement, as if this was yet one more example of American backwardness. “A superior English delicacy. Don’t say that you’ve never tried it?”

Struggling to make her face expressionless, Lillian shook her head wordlessly. She flinched as the footman pried open the calf’s smoking jaws and sliced out the tongue.

“Some claim the tongue is the most delicious part,” the lady continued, “while others swear that the brains are by far the most delectable. I will say, however, that without a doubt the eyes are the most exquisite tidbits.”

Lillian’s own eyes closed sickly at this revelation. She felt the rising sting of bile in her throat. She had never been an enthusiast for English cuisine, but as objectionable as she had found some dishes in the past, nothing had ever prepared her for the repulsive sight of the calf’s head. Slitting her eyes open, she glanced around the room. It seemed that everywhere, calves’ heads were being carved, opened and sliced. Brains were spooned out onto plates, throat sweetbreads were cut into thin slices…

She was going to be ill.

Feeling the blood drain from her face, Lillian looked toward the end of the table, where Daisy dubiously watched a few morsels being ceremoniously deposited on her plate. Slowly Lillian raised a corner of her napkin to her mouth. No. She couldn’t let herself be ill. But the rich, oily smell of calf’s head floated all around her, and as she heard the industrious clink of knives and forks being employed, and the appreciative murmuring of the diners, the sickness rose in choking waves. A small plate was settled in front of her, containing a few slices of…something …and a gelatinous eyeball with a conical base rolled lazily toward the rim.

“Sweet Jesus,” Lillian whispered, sweat breaking out on her forehead.

A cool, calm voice seemed to cut through the cloud of nausea. “Miss Bowman…”

Desperately looking in the direction of the voice, she saw Lord Westcliff’s impassive face. “Yes, my lord?” she asked thickly.

He seemed to choose his words with unusual care. “Forgive what may seem a somewhat eccentric request …but it occurs to me that now is the most opportune time to view a rare species of butterfly that abides on the estate. It comes out only at early evening, which is, of course, a departure from the usual pattern. You may recall my having mentioned it during a previous conversation.”

“Butterfly?” Lillian repeated, swallowing repeatedly against a surge of nausea.

“Perhaps you might allow me to show you and your sister to the outdoor conservatory, where new hatchings have recently been sighted. To my regret, it would necessitate that we abstain from this particular remove, but we will return in time for you to enjoy the rest of the supper.”

Several guests paused with their forks in mid-air, their expressions registering astonishment at Westcliff’s peculiar request.

Realizing that he was giving her an excuse to leave the dining hall, with her sister accompanying them for propriety’s sake, Lillian nodded. “Butterflies,” she repeated breathlessly. “Yes, I would love to see them.”

“So would I,” came Daisy’s voice from the other end of the table. She stood with alacrity, obliging all the gentlemen to courteously hoist themselves up from their chairs. “How considerate of you to remember our interest in the native insects of Hampshire, my lord.”

Westcliff came to help Lillian from her chair. “Breathe through your mouth,” he whispered. White-faced and sweating, she obeyed.

All gazes were upon them. “My lord,” one of the gentlemen, Lord Wymark, said, “may I ask which rare species of butterfly you are referring to?”

There was a slight hesitation, and then Westcliff replied with grave deliberation. “The purple-spotted…” He paused before finishing, “…dingy-dipper.”

Wymark frowned. “I fancy myself something of a lepidopterist, my lord. And while I know of the dingy-skipper, which is found only in Northumberland, I have never heard of the dingy-dipper.”

There was a measured pause. “It’s a hybrid,” West-cliff said. “Morpho purpureus practicus. To my knowledge it has been observed only in the environs of Stony Cross.”

“I should like to go have a glance at the colony with you if I may,” Wymark said, setting his napkin on the table in preparation to rise. “The discovery of a new hybrid is always a remarkable—”

“Tomorrow evening,” Westcliff said authoritatively. “The dingy-dippers are sensitive to the presence of humans. I would not wish to endanger such a fragile species. I think it best to visit them in small groups of two or three.”

“Yes, my lord,” Wymark said, obviously disgruntled as he settled back in his chair. “Tomorrow evening, then.”

Gratefully Lillian took Westcliff’s arm, while Daisy took the other, and they left the room with great dignity.

CHAPTER 10

Lillian was nearly overcome by nausea as Westcliff took her to an outdoor conservatory. The sky had turned plum-colored, the gathering darkness relieved only by starlight and the flares of newly lit torches. As the clean, sweet evening air swept over her, she gulped in deep breaths. Westcliff guided her to a cane-backed chair, exhibiting far more compassion than Daisy, who staggered against a column and shook with spasms of laughter.