With his edgy silence, Gabriel made it clear that Chiara had violated one of the fundamental tenets of their marriage. Secrets, even undeniably trivial ones, were forbidden.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I should have said something, but Julian was adamant. He knew your first instinct would be to say no.”

“He could sell the gallery to Oliver Dimbleby in a heartbeat and retire to an island in the Caribbean.”

“Have you considered what that might mean for us? Do you really want to clean pictures for Oliver Dimbleby? Or Giles Pittaway? Or were you thinking you could scrape up a bit of freelance work from the Tate or the National Gallery?”

“It sounds as if you and Julian have it all worked out.”

“We do.”

“Then perhaps you should become Julian’s partner.”

“Only if you clean pictures for me.”

Gabriel could see that Chiara was serious. “Running a gallery isn’t all about attending glamorous auctions and having long lunches in fancy restaurants in Jermyn Street. And it’s not something that should be considered a hobby.”

“Thank you for dismissing me as a dilettante.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“You’re not the only one who’s retired from the Office, Gabriel. I am, too. But unlike you, I don’t have damaged Old Masters to occupy my time.”

“So you want to become an art dealer? You’ll spend your days rummaging through piles of mediocre paintings, looking for another lost Titian. And chances are you’ll never find one.”

“It doesn’t sound that bad to me.” Chiara looked around the street. “And it means we could live here.”

“I thought you liked Cornwall.”

“I adore it,” she said. “Just not in winter.”

Gabriel lapsed into silence. He had been bracing himself for a conversation like this for some time. “I thought we were going to have a baby,” he said.