‘We have some lovely new decorations,’ Charlotte said. ‘Mama ordered them from Selfridges.’

‘Oh dear, you haven’t done away with the beautiful old decorations, have you?’ Emma pouted. ‘I do so like those hand-painted globes. The ones decorated with holly and ivy.’

‘They belonged to Sir Charles’ mother,’ Lady Mandeville said. ‘They were her favourites. I would find it so reassuring to know that one day I might pass them into the care of someone who treasures them as I do.’

‘I’m glad you keep the old traditions going,’ Emma said. ‘It means I always feel so at home here.’

‘And so you should,’ Lady Mandeville smiled.

George muttered something under his breath about the tree at Caxton Hall being twice the size. When nobody took any notice, he grabbed a third glass of mulled wine.

‘Come,’ Lady Mandeville said. ‘You must hear all about our adventures yesterday. We were stranded in the snow and had to make our way back through a blizzard! Can you imagine? At one point, I was certain I would never see Hill House again.’

Mrs Hart shook her head. ‘I have never known so much drama to be made from a mere inconvenience. Anyone would think we had made our way back from Antarctica rather than Leamington Spa.’

‘Oh, Aunt Leonora,’ Emma said, clearly not sharing her brother’s squeamishness about addressing this side of the family as close relatives. ‘I’m sure you’re underplaying the adventure. I want to hear all about it. It sounds positively thrilling.’

Lady Mandeville directed her guests into the morning room, but Lou hung back. When she was sure that her presence – or rather lack of it – had gone unnoticed, she slipped away through the billiard room and into the conservatory. Amongst the spicy scent and the lush greenery, she sat on one of the wicker chairs. So, Emma Caxton was not only beautiful, but clever and witty too. An equal in every way for Tom.

The door opened. ‘Oh,’ Edward said when he saw her sitting amongst the plants. ‘Sorry. I’ll find somewhere else.’

‘Don’t go,’ Lou said.

Edward hesitated before closing the door and taking the seat beside her.

‘It’s a lovely room,’ she said. ‘Very tranquil.’

Edward stared at the floor between his feet. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

Silence.

‘You didn’t want to join the party?’ she asked.

‘I despise enforced jollity.’ Edward’s spectacles slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back up. He sat forward in the chair, hands hanging limply between his knees. This close, Lou could see that Edward shared Tom’s strong features, although his face was slimmer, his skin paler. The dark circles beneath his eyes were also a giveaway that he hadn’t slept well in days.

‘Are you looking forward to the shoot?’ she asked, hoping for some sign of enthusiasm.

Edward twisted the cufflink around in his sleeve. ‘Have you ever seen a pheasant shot?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘After the beaters flush them out, each pheasant soars into the sky, wings outstretched. For a moment, they are suspended in the air and are quite beautiful. Until you realise they are flying not for pleasure, but in fear of their lives. Within seconds, each is shot full of lead. Their hearts stop in their chests as they crash to the ground where they meet the final indignity of finding themselves clamped in the jaws of a lolling retriever.’