‘Can’t imagine the Hunters being involved in anything.’

‘They all had a guilty air about them. They looked conspiratorial. They kept exchanging furtive glances. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t.’ The new Lord Remnant crossed over to the drinks trolley and poured himself a whisky. ‘No one is at their best at funerals. I thought they looked subdued and terribly pale and pinched, but then didn’t we all?’

‘You couldn’t look pale even if you tried.’

It was the kind of cutting remark that made Gerard Fenwick wonder about the state of their marriage. Better pretend he hadn’t heard.

He raised the whisky glass to his lips. ‘That was an embarrassing little scene, wasn’t it? Never imagined Tradewell was an emotional chap. Falling to his knees – praying in that booming voice, with his hands clasped above his head. Sobbing.’

‘I am sure Tradewell was crying for himself. His fate is a bit uncertain now.’

‘Tradewell’s an oxymoron. An emotional butler. But you may be right. Don’t suppose Clarissa cares much for Tradewell. I know he “goes” with the house, but we may not need him either.’

‘We don’t have to live at Remnant, do we?’

‘We’ll be expected to put in an appearance every now and then. Noblesse oblige and all that sort of rot.’

Gerard Fenwick stood beside the window, nursing his drink, gazing at the sky, which was a gash of crimson and orange. His thoughts turned to Renée Glover. The way she had smiled at him – such a sweet smile. Renée was genuinely interested in his writing…

Felicity said, ‘No second thoughts about starting the – what is it you wanted to call it? Dilettanti Drag?’

‘Dilettanti Droug. Was that meant to be funny? It will be a small but rather exclusive press,’ he said stiffly. She doesn’t understand me, he thought. She doesn’t understand me at all.

‘Oh yes. Droug is Russian for “fiend”, I keep forgetting.’