Robert smiled at himself. It was young Blackie O’Neill who had told Wilson about the vacancy, his need for a talented estate manager. Apparently O’Neill had built a beautiful new kitchen for Wilson’s aunt, pretty much run the project himself, and had met Wilson there, sent him along to meet the Earl. Now O’Neill was building a conservatory for her. The boy is certainly enterprising, Robert thought. He wondered if he could find a job for him, something to test out the talent he suspected lay beneath the cheerful and hard-working Irish labourer. He’d come a long way from the skinny youth who used to help out in the gardens sometimes at Lassiter Hall with his cousin Michael.

Wilson had done wonders with the Bolton Manor estate in a very short time. He was thirty-two, had an open, very genial personality and got on well with all who worked with him. He had a love of agriculture and the estate was prospering under his guidance.

Right from the start, Robert had been honest with Wilson about the fact that he was estranged from Lady Lucinda, and they lived separate lives, keeping up a civil front for the sake of their sons. He had told the new estate manager he needed to know the Countess’s whereabouts at all times. Hence, the early note this morning; Colin Wilson wanted to alert him that Lady Lucinda had already left Bolton Manor – and England.

Robert leaned back in the chair, his mind racing. He knew that Adrian was having a meeting this morning with the head of the private investigating company.

Later they would have lunch together at the Fraser Brothers’ private bank.

Adrian ran the Mayfair office on South Audley Street, and a new dining room had just been created so that important clients could be entertained at leisure in secure surroundings.

Robert rose and walked over to the window, stood looking out at Grosvenor Square, thinking, suddenly, how his life had changed overnight. In the blink of an eye.

He heard his father’s voice echoing in his head, warning him that he should never waste a day, because that particular day would never come back. ‘So live those hours to the limit,’ his father had constantly reminded him. And often he would add, ‘And always remember you are not in control of your life. Life is. All you do is control your behaviour and your day-to-day living, your friendships, your relationship with women, your colleagues, your parents and your children, should you have them.’ And he had remembered every word, cherishing his father’s wisdom. His father had also forewarned that his life could change in the blink of an eye, and now it had.

At precisely eleven o’clock, Turnbull showed Colin Wilson into the library as he announced his name.

Robert stood up and went to greet him, his hand outstretched.

‘Good morning, Wilson,’ Robert said. ‘I’m glad to see you.’