‘Cor! You’d think they’d take the pictures down and hide the best china,’ Maggie said, in an undertone. ‘Not because we might nick anything, of course,’ she added quickly, ‘but in case something gets damaged. All this must be worth a fortune.’

For a moment, as she pictured herself sitting here, surrounded by sparkling chandeliers and paintings, like a Lady dealing with her correspondence, Maggie forgot to be worried about the evening ahead.

But then they made their way to the French doors which opened out onto the terrace and her stomach flipped over.

Before they went through, Ray tapped Maggie’s arm, so that she stopped and turned towards him.

He cleared his throat and spoke quietly. ‘I should … erm … take no notice of anything Nancy Fry says, Miss Corbett.’ He looked down at the carpet and then back at Maggie. She could hardly meet his eye. He’d heard Nancy! Oh, this was too embarrassing.

‘She blurts out whatever comes into her head. You … er … you look …’ he seemed to be searching for the right word. ‘… Most presentable.’

Presentable? Was that all? Maggie thought she might laugh. Or cry.

Before she could reply, he stepped outside and took two glasses of wine from a waiter with a tray.

Maggie followed him. A few people standing nearby glanced around and then, clearly not finding them particularly interesting, returned to their conversations.

‘Wine?’ He was holding out a glass.

There didn’t seem to be anything else on offer, so she took it.

‘Don’t get tight, will you? Best sip it,’ he said.

Maggie pulled a face at him, but Ray was too busy gazing around to notice.

It was dusk and the air was still warm. Small groups of men and women – drinking, smoking, laughing and greeting friends – were dotted around the terrace and on the lawn beyond. A gramophone, set up near the open French doors, was playing big band music and from somewhere nearby, came Nancy’s unmistakeable hee-haw laugh.

Lord Ashford, dressed in slacks and a patterned waistcoat, was standing on the terrace, talking to a semicircle of guests. He looked relaxed and younger, somehow, out of his business suit.

‘I knew my troops here wouldn’t let me down,’ he was saying. ‘I sent a telegram to Dakin and got one straight back. Two words: SNOWDEN READY.’

As she scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces, Maggie spotted a pretty blonde, standing alone. She was about her age, with a pageboy hairstyle and wearing a red floral party frock, with a tasselled lace shawl draped around her shoulders. She was smoking a cigarette from an elegant holder and blowing smoke rings into the evening air. She was alone but she didn’t look lonely. Rather, she looked perfectly at home. Perhaps this was her home? She might even be a member of the Ashford family.