Cuckolded, he thought, taking a bitter satisfaction in the robust, old-fashioned word. Cuckolded by a sissy, a man with long hair and a beard, who went about with a vague air as if he didn’t know what day it was-a man who talked to animals, of all things! “Tony’s a better man than you,” Liz had flung at him. But that had been just spite.

He stepped on the gas. He wanted to get as near as possible to Strand House before the light faded.

Strand House. He could almost see it before him, exactly as he’d first set eyes on it, the great eighteenth-century mansion looking out over the sea. As a boy William had worked there, doing carpentry for the aristocratic family who owned it. Later, when he’d made his fortune, it had been his dream to own the place. He hadn’t succeeded, but Gavin did. The family had fallen on hard times and he’d badgered them until they sold up. The proudest day of Gavin’s life had been when he could show William the title deeds in his possession. But even then William had found cause for complaint.

“Why isn’t it in your sole name?” he’d snapped.

“For tax reasons, Dad,” Gavin had explained patiently. “It’ll be a lot cheaper if it’s in Liz’s name too. Don’t worry. It’s only on paper.”

But it hadn’t worked out like that. Liz had fallen in love with the house and the sea, wanted to make a home there. He’d explained that their home had to be in London.

“That’s not a home,” she’d told him. “That’s just a base for exhibiting to people you want to overwhelm. I want a home.”

Because he didn’t understand her, he’d tried to pass it off as a joke. “Don’t people say home is where the heart is?”