“And apply for custody of all three?” said Joan.

“No.” McKinley shook his head. “Yours is a special case. Ian is your heir; he is set to inherit not just a fortune, but a life. For him, a steady hand is required. He will have position in society. Society needs men of his position to hold a steady course, and only you can give it. The rules of inheritance dictate, Miss Campbell, and they will dictate to court.”

“The papers will have a field day,” said Pat.

“You will face some very unpleasant questioning,” said McKinley.

“I have nothing to hide,” said Joan.

Pat crossed her legs the other way. McKinley wrote a note in the margin of his file. Joan took another slug of lemon water.

“And what of the boy’s father?” said McKinley, smiling bleakly.

“You may well ask,” said Pat.

“We have his full support,” said Joan. Douglas had sent a wire back last night. It said: do everything you can.

“Has he agreed that you should have custody?”

“He agreed to that two years ago.”

“He applied for custody of all three of them,” said Pat.

“It was a condition of divorce,” said Joan.

“But they are not divorced.”

“She didn’t sign,” said Joan.

“Douglas is a simpleton,” said Pat.

“If he’d carried it out in an office, none of this would have happened,” said Joan.

“He had some ridiculous notion of fairness.” Pat peered into Joan’s glass, sniffed, and put it down again.

“Then he must continue his line,” said McKinley.

“No,” said Joan. “I will not let this become another chapter in their wretched marriage. Let him divorce her.”

“He means to marry his mistress,” said Pat.

“Then I take it he will speak on our behalf?” said McKinley.

“Oh, Douglas.” Joan stared angrily across the table. “He’ll do anything we want.”

Out on the street, Joan took Pat’s arm. “Let’s walk. I need the air.” She leaned into the car, and spoke to her driver. “Meet us at The National.” The car eased away and Joan tucked her other hand into the deep fur pockets of her coat. They turned left along King Charles Street to Horse Guards Parade and St James’ Park. A pair of swans floated quietly on the lake; the cold fluffed their feathers. Joan and Pat increased their speed, as the warmth of the offices of Bircham & Co receded and winter took hold about their ears. Across the Mall they marched arm in arm, through Admiralty Arch, past Nelson’s Column, and up the steps of the National Gallery.

They sat before Stubbs, a horse rearing, a look in its eye of power and fear. “I can’t think straight,” said Joan.

“You don’t have to,” said Pat. “They can’t possibly leave him with her. He’ll be home in no time.”