‘Diving into the royal goldfish bowl of Alp de Montez is scarcely freeing yourself,’ he said cautiously.

‘It all depends on what your prison has been,’ she said. ‘Are you going to ask me to dance?’

‘I…’ What the hell? ‘Yes.’

‘Excellent,’ she said, and she smiled, rose and took his arm, altogether proprietary. It seemed as if he was forgiven. ‘If I’m going to get the camphor smell out of this dress then I need to swirl it round a bit.’

She didn’t smell of camphor.

Rose was an intuitive dancer, light and lovely on her feet. Nick had been taught the rudiments of dance by his determined little foster mother, and he’d always enjoyed it. With great music and a good partner one could almost lose oneself in dance.

But not tonight. He didn’t want to lose himself when he was dancing with Rose.

The Latin music gave way to a gentle waltz. Erhard had still not returned to their table so suddenly Nick was holding her close, steering her around the dance floor, feeling her body mould to his in perfect time with his steps, in perfect time with him.

And she didn’t smell of camphor. She smelled of Rose.

What was she doing? She’d brought this dress with her on a whim, walking out of the house feeling as if she’d betrayed everyone. She hadn’t been worried about what she was wearing. But as her mother-in-law’s weeping had increased, as her father-in-law had wrung his hands and said, ‘Rose, you can’t leave. We love you. You’re our daughter. What would Max think?’ she’d abandoned her distress as too hard and she’d let anger hold sway.

She’d lifted the lid of her camphor chest and had retrieved the dress and shoes that had lain there for what seemed almost a lifetime.

And then, before she’d closed the chest again, she’d taken Max’s photograph from her bedside table and put it where her dress had been.

And had closed the lid.

Then she’d walked out of the house. Free.