Venetia sat down next to Sarah Douglas and smoothed the flounced silk of her skirt over her knees. ‘So, your curiosity got the better of you, Louisa. You couldn’t keep away from Glen Douglas.’ Her smile masked considerable venom. ‘You know, of course, that he’s not here. He’s travelling abroad.’

Louisa frowned. ‘I’m sorry? About whom are we talking?’ She glanced at their host who was engaged in animated conversation with David Fielding by the fireplace. Both men held whisky glasses in their hands. The huge hearth behind them was filled with an arrangement of bog myrtle and heather.

‘Lord Carstairs, of course.’ Venetia’s cheeks coloured slightly.

Louisa stared at her, her own face growing so pale her hostess sat forward anxiously, afraid Louisa was going to faint. ‘Roger Carstairs lives near here?’ Louisa whispered.

Sarah Douglas nodded. ‘So you know him as well? But, of course, you must have met him in Egypt. Our estates march together, my dear. Carstairs Castle is but two miles from here.’

Louisa found her mouth had gone dry. For a moment words failed her totally in the rush of emotions which assailed her. Roger Carstairs: the man who, in Egypt, had asked her to marry him, who had tried to seduce her, who had seen and recognised the little bottle Hassan had given as being something of supreme supernatural importance and who, when he was refused the bottle, had finally been responsible for her beloved Hassan’s death. A man so imbued with evil that his very name sent a shiver of distaste through the households of the British aristocracy amongst whom he used to socialise. A man whom Venetia had liked very much indeed.

Somehow Louisa found her voice, aware that Katherine’s gaze was as full of sympathy and kindness as Venetia’s was of spite.

‘I had no idea this was where he lived.’ She took a deep breath. ‘How extraordinary. But I had heard that he never returned to Britain after -’ She found her voice growing husky. ‘After our visit to Egypt.’