“That wretched man.” I seethed. “He's like a boomerang, always hurtling back. Peter says he's always coming to London." I was furious. Tommy Rochester was the last person I wanted to see, particularly down here. He really would wonder why I'd come, and suggest the unthinkable with his knowing looks and mocking smile. A supposedly self-made man — albeit with wealthy Connecticut parents who no doubt still lobbed him a trust fund — he didn't have a creative bone in his body and ran something odious like a hedge fund, or a management consultancy in New York. Something hard-nosed and financial, anyway. I have no doubt he looked entirely the part too, all slicked-back hair and snappy braces. He was also the worst sort of Lothario with a penchant for married women. It was said that Tommy had been in and under some of the smartest beds in Manhattan — and out of their windows. Nothing was lost in the telling, of course, and I have no doubt he delighted in these scurrilous tales of modern piracy, pillage on Wall Street by day and seduction on the Upper East Side by night. Doubtless he added his own, apocryphal embellishments. Temperamentally he was anathema to me, he pressed all my buttons, not least because I still blamed him, in some part, for Hugo and me breaking up.

"Oh, this is too exciting," Celia breathed huskily, sucking hard on her Marlboro Light. “The famous Tommy Rochester. I've heard about him. Is he attached?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the front door opening slightly, although no one actually appeared. Most country houses used the back, but not Trewarren: traffic resolutely went up and down those steps, mostly because the mistress's study was at the front, and thus a vigilant eye was kept.

“Seems to be. He's brought someone with him, at any rate," said Iris. "Nice girl. Good little jockey."

I was surprised. Not that Tommy had brought someone with him, that was par for the course, but Iris had an acerbic word for most people. She was certainly still eyeing Celia suspiciously, having not made up her mind. Being a good jockey helped, of course. Anyone who rode well started a few rungs up Iris's ladder.

"A tart, naturally." She sniffed. "But I don't hold that against her. Anyway, I'd better be off," she said, glancing at the front door.

Sure enough, Belinda was sailing down the steps. Dressed in a voluminous blue and white floral dress, a welcoming smile on her round face, she was very definitely making her entrance. Still undoubtedly pretty in a plump, peaches and cream, English rose sort of way, her blonde-gray curls swept back from her forehead and tucked behind pearl-studded ears, she radiated lady of the manor.

"Flora! You're here. My dear, how lovely." Her plummy tones floated tunefully on the breeze. "I was hoping you'd make it in time for lunch. Was the traffic ghastly?"