Tremaine noticed as well, and gave a small flinch. It was most gratifying.

Harry looked up from his drink into Tremaine’s startled face. ‘And, by the by, how is Elise?’ It was a bold conversational gambit, and he was rewarded with a slight choke from his opponent.

The other man turned to him and sat up straight, his indolence disappearing. His eyes glittered with suppressed rage. ‘She is well, I think. If you care, you should go and ask her yourself. She would be glad of the call.’

She would be no such thing. As he remembered their last conversation, Elise had made it plain that if she never saw Harry again it would be too soon. ‘Perhaps I will,’ he answered, and smiled as though they were having a pleasant discussion about an old friend and nothing more.

It must have disappointed their audience to see the two men behaving as adults on this most delicate of subjects. But their moderate behaviour had not quelled the undercurrent of anticipation. He could see from the corner of his eye that the room had begun to fill with observers. They were reading newspapers, engaging in subdued chat, and gazing out of the bay window while sipping drinks. But every man present was taking care to be uninterested in a most focused fashion, waiting for the cross word that would set the two of them to brawling like schoolboys.

If only it were so easily settled. If Harry could have been sure of a win, he would have met his opponent on the field of honour long before now. The temptation existed to hand his jacket to the nearest servant, roll up his sleeves, raise his fists and lay the bastard out on the hearth rug. But physically, they were evenly matched. A fight would impress no one, should he lose it. And Elise would think even less of him than she did now if he was bested in public by Nicholas Tremaine.