“Look at the two of them,” he observed. “Just like it was ten years ago, with no war in between. That’s why they’ve stayed friends.”

“You were at Cambridge with them, I take it.”

“Indeed I was. She was a whirlwind back then. He was her rock. One of those giant stones you see off the shore, standing tall and solid while the waves crash around it.”

“Mr. Weatherby, you are a poet.”

“I scribbled some pretentious lines when I was young and foolish,” he admitted. “That was then. Well, better carry a peace offering over to the wife if I’m to avoid sleeping on the sofa tonight. Until the next draft, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

He poured another cup of wine and wandered into the scrum.

One of the men in uniform immediately took his place.

“You were jolly good up there,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

“So you and Sparks work in the same office, do you?”

“We do.”

“Lucky boss to have a pair of lookers like the two of you coming in every day,” he said. “Wouldn’t mind being in his shoes, I must say.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Gwen sweetly. “Which boss would that be?”

“Why, your boss. You know, the fellow you two work for.”

“There is no fellow we work for.”

“Now I’m the one who doesn’t understand,” he said.

“The two of us own the business,” said Gwen. “The two of us run the business. You are now addressing a boss.”

“How very novel,” he said. “I have gone and put my foot in it, haven’t I?”

“Both, I would say.”

“I’ll just slink away and lick my wounds, then,” he said. “Cheers.”

“We have an opening for a secretary if you’re interested in applying,” she called after him. “Do you type?”

He moved as far from her as the crowd and the size of the room would permit.

She heard a low, appreciative laugh, and turned to see another man standing a few feet away. Also in uniform—a captain, she observed.

“Grenadiers?” she asked, noting his insignia.

“Got it in one,” he said. “Captain Timothy Palfrey, Second Armoured, at your service.”

“Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge,” she replied. “How do you do?”

“I enjoyed your performance. Both of them, in fact.”

“Both?”

“Your brush-off of that military assault just now. Superbly done.”

“How poor a soldier he must be to undertake such an action without assessing the defenses first.”

“Ah. You must be a soldier’s daughter.”

“And a soldier’s widow,” she said.

“My condolences,” he said, holding up his cup in salute.

She grimaced for a moment.

“Was that the wrong thing to say?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” said Gwen. “You were being polite. Condolences are always polite. And politeness is always correct. But it’s tiresome.”

“You did bring it up,” he pointed out.

“Because I saw you glance at my wedding ring,” she said. “And you were wondering how to play the game.”

“The game?”

“The game where two men size up a woman and decide who will go after her. One goes first and deliberately fumbles badly, then the second swoops in to look dashing by comparison. I’ve known that dodge since I was sixteen. I saw the two of you together when I came in, a pair of matched Grenadiers. He’s batted out, and you’re the new striker. Am I correct?”