“I read online you developed Papermaker,” I say. “That was you?”

“My brainchild.” He shrugs. “Others more talented than me design the stuff.”

“I like Papermaker,” I allow. “Nice cards. Expensive.”

“But you still buy them.” He gives me a tiny grin.

“For now,” I retaliate. “Till I find another brand.”

“Touché.” He winces and I give him a sidelong look. Maybe that was a bit harsh.

“Are you actually in trouble?” Even as I ask, I know it’s an inane question. Everyone’s in trouble right now. “I mean, real trouble?”

“We’re at a junction.” He exhales. “It’s a tricky time. Ben’s dad died with no warning, and we’ve been treading water ever since. We need to make a few brave decisions.” He hesitates. “The right brave decisions.”

“Ah.” I consider this. “Do you mean Ben has to make the right brave decisions?”

“You catch on quickly.”

“And is he likely to? You can tell me. I won’t let on.” I pause, wondering whether to be tactful or not. “Are you about to go bust?”

“No.” He reacts so hotly, I know I’ve hit a nerve. “We are not about to go bust. We’re profitable. We can be more profitable. We have the brand names, the resources, a very loyal workforce.…” He sounds as though he’s trying to convince some imaginary audience. “But it’s hard. We held off a bid for the company last year.”

“Wouldn’t that be a solution?”

“Ben’s father would turn in his grave,” says Lorcan shortly. “It was from Yuri Zhernakov.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Wow.” Yuri Zhernakov is one of those guys who appear in the paper every other day with words like “billionaire” and “oligarch” attached to their names.

“He saw the house on TV and his wife fell in love with it,” Lorcan says drily. “They wanted to live there for a few weeks every year.”

“Well, that could be good, couldn’t it?” I say. “Sell up while there’s some cash on offer?”

There’s silence. Lorcan is glowering at the screen saver on his laptop, which I notice is a Papermaker design that I’ve bought myself.

“Maybe Ben will sell,” he says at last. “But to anyone but Zhernakov.”

“What’s wrong with Zhernakov?” I challenge him, laughing. “Are you a snob?”

“No, I’m not a snob!” retorts Lorcan forcefully. “But I care about the company. A guy like Zhernakov isn’t interested in some two-bit paper company spoiling his view. He’d close down half the company, relocate the rest, ruin the community. If Ben ever spent any time up there, he’d realize—” He stops himself and exhales. “Besides which, the offer’s wrong.”

“What does Ben think?”

“Ben …” Lorcan takes a gulp of his mineral water. “Unfortunately, Ben’s pretty naïve. He doesn’t have the business instinct of his father but he thinks he does. Which is dangerous.”

I glance at his briefcase. “So you want to get out there and persuade Ben to sign all the restructuring contracts before he can change his mind.”

Lorcan is silent for a while, drumming his fingers lightly together.

“I want him to start taking responsibility for his inheritance,” he says at last. “He doesn’t realize how lucky he is.”

I take a few sips of champagne. Some of this makes sense to me and some of it really doesn’t.

“Why does it matter so much to you?” I say at last. “It’s not your company.”

Lorcan blinks, and I sense I’ve touched a nerve again, although he’s careful to hide it.

“Ben’s dad was an amazing guy,” he says at length. “I just want to make things work out the way he would have wanted. And they can,” he adds with sudden vigor. “Ben’s creative. He’s smart. He could be a great leader, but he needs to stop dicking around and offending people.”

I’m tempted to ask exactly how Ben has offended people, but I can’t quite bring myself to be that nosy.

“You were a lawyer in London, weren’t you?” My thoughts head off in a new direction.

“Freshfields are still wondering where I am.” Lorcan’s face flashes with humor. “I was on gardening leave between law firms when I went up to stay with Ben’s dad. That was four years ago. I still get calls from recruitment companies, but I’m happy.”

“Do you do annulments?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Annulments?” Lorcan raises his eyebrows very high. “I see.” As he meets my eyes, his expression is so quizzical, I nearly laugh. “You have a Machiavellian mind, Ms. Graveney.”

“I have a practical mind,” I correct him.

“So they really haven’t—” Lorcan interrupts himself. “Hey. What’s going on there?”

I follow his glance and see that the old woman who was sitting next to me is clutching her chest and fighting for breath. A teenage boy is looking around helplessly, and he calls out, “Is there a doctor? Is anyone here a doctor?”

“I’m a GP.” A gray-haired man in a linen jacket hurries to the seat. “Is this your grandmother?”

“No! I’ve never seen her before!” The teenager sounds panicky, and I don’t blame him. The old lady doesn’t look very well. We’re all watching the doctor talk to the old woman in a low voice and feel for her pulse, when suddenly the air hostess with the French plait appears.

“Sir,” she says breathlessly to us. “Please could we ask for your help?”

Help? What on earth—

I realize the truth just as Richard does. They think he’s a doctor. Oh shit. He glances at me wildly and I pull an agonized face back.

“We have an expert here!” the air hostess is saying to the man in the linen jacket, her eyes alive with excitement. “Don’t worry, everyone! We have a very senior pioneering surgeon from Great Ormond Street on board! He’ll take charge!”

Richard’s eyes are bulging in alarm. “No!” he manages. “No. Really. I’m … not …”

“Go on, Uncle Richard!” says Noah, his face bright. “Cure the lady!” Meanwhile, the GP looks affronted.

“It’s a straightforward case of angina,” he says testily, getting up. “My medical bag’s on board if you’d like me to assist. But if you want to give a second opinion—”

“No.” Richard looks desperate. “No, I don’t!”

“I’ve given her sublingual nitroglycerin. Would you agree with that?”

Oh God. This is bad. Richard looks absolutely desperate.

“I … I …” He swallows. “I—”

“He never practices on board planes!” I come to his rescue. “He has a phobia!”

“Yes,” gulps Richard, shooting me a grateful glance. “Exactly! A phobia.”

“Ever since a flight which went dreadfully wrong.” I shudder dramatically, as though from a painful memory. “Flight 406 to Bangladesh.”

“Please don’t ask me to talk about it.” Richard plays along.

“He’s still in therapy.” I nod gravely.

The GP stares at us both as if we’re crazy.

“Well, good thing I was here,” he says shortly. He turns back to the old woman, and both Richard and I subside. I feel weak. The air hostess shakes her head in disappointment and heads over to the other side of the plane.

“Fliss, you have to get Noah sorted out,” says Richard in a low, urgent voice. “He can’t go around just making up stories. He’ll get someone in real trouble.”

“I know.” I wince. “I’m so sorry.”

The old lady is being taken to some farther bit of the plane. The GP and the cabin crew are having what looks like a tense discussion. They all disappear behind a curtain, and for a little while there’s no sign of life. Richard is staring ahead intently, his forehead creased in concern. He must be worried about the old woman, I find myself thinking benevolently. He has a kind heart, Richard.

“So, listen. Tell me.” He turns to me at last, his brow still furrowed. “They really haven’t done it yet?”

Oh, honestly. Silly me. He’s a man. Naturally he’s thinking about only one thing.

“Not as far as I know.” I shrug.

“Hey, maybe this Ben can’t get it up.” Richard’s face brightens in sudden animation.

“I don’t think that’s it.” I shake my head.

“Why not? It’s the only explanation! He can’t get it up!”

“Can’t get what up?” asks Noah with interest.

Great. I glare at Richard, but he’s so triumphant, he doesn’t notice. I’m sure there’s some special long German word meaning “the joy you feel at your rival’s sexual impotence,” and right now Richard has it with bells on.

“Poor guy,” he adds, as he finally notices my disapproving look. “I mean, I feel for him, obviously. Nasty affliction.”

“You have no evidence for this,” I point out.

“It’s his honeymoon,” retorts Richard. “Who doesn’t do it on their honeymoon unless he can’t get it up?”

“Can’t get what up?” Noah’s voice pipes louder.

“Nothing, darling,” I say hastily to Noah. “Just something very grown-up and boring.”

“Is it a grown-up thing that goes up?” asks Noah with piercing curiosity. “Does it ever go down?”

“He can’t get it up!” Richard is exultant. “It all falls into place. Poor old Lottie.”

“Who can’t get it up?” says Lorcan, turning toward us.

“Ben,” says Richard.

“Really?” Lorcan looks taken aback. “Shit.” He frowns thoughtfully. “Well, that explains a lot.”

Oh God. This is how rumors start. This is how misunderstandings happen and archdukes get shot and world wars begin.

“Listen, both of you!” I say fiercely. “Lottie has said nothing whatsoever to me about anything being up … or down.”

“Mine is up,” volunteers Noah matter-of-factly, and I gasp in horror before I can stop myself.

OK, Fliss. Don’t overreact. Be cool. Be an enlightened parent.

“Really, darling? Gosh. Well.” My cheeks have flamed. Both men are waiting with expressions of glee. “That’s … that’s interesting, sweetheart. Maybe we’ll have a little talk about it later. Our bodies do wonderful, mysterious things, but we don’t always talk about them in public.” I give a meaningful look at Richard.