‘Most things are,’ he called back. ‘I shouldn’t worry. Let’s face it, ’til we get here each morning, none of us knows if the place will still be standing or just a pile of bricks.’ He held open a door for Maggie, followed her through and rapidly overtook her.

They hadn’t shaken hands, had they? Should they have? Mr Maguire seemed in too much of a hurry for any niceties.

‘His Nibs is here,’ he said over his shoulder, as though that should mean something to her. ‘Everyone’s in the boardroom.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Important announcement.’

The carpet was thick and the corridor walls were covered in paintings set in ornate gold frames: landscapes and horses and bowls of fruit. Maggie inhaled. Even the air was different, it smelled of something exotic, like cigars. Or money.

They slipped in at the back of an oak-panelled room in which about twenty bank employees were standing with their backs to them. Ray Maguire seemed to forget her immediately: his attention was fixed on the middle-aged man standing at the front, addressing everyone.

Now, there was a proper toff, a real gentleman. He was speaking in a deep, rich voice, that carried clearly to the back of the room. Maggie’s breath caught in her throat. It must be him: Lord Ashford, the owner of the bank.

She resisted the urge to take a look at her new colleagues and focused on what Lord Ashford was saying.

‘… given the international situation … likely to continue for some time …’

‘I knew it! What did I say? He’s going to close us down,’ a freckled redhead said crossly. She folded her arms across her chest and frowned. Someone nudged her and a couple of others glared at her to be quiet.

‘My intention is to protect the bank and all its assets. There’s no time to be lost. And so …’ He paused and gazed at them all.

Maggie moved her head to one side to get a better look at him. He was ever so handsome. Like a film star. Like Clark Gable! She’d seen Gone with the Wind at the Troxy three times and yes, that was who he reminded her of: Rhett Butler, with his dark, Brylcreemed hair, side parting and pencil moustache. And those sparkling, intelligent eyes, scanning the room. They wouldn’t miss a trick, those eyes.

He spoke clearly and loudly but he wasn’t frightening, like an awful lot of bosses, he was more … what was the word? Imposing, yes, that was it.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘I am proposing to move everything to Snowden Hall, my place in the country, miles from here. Away from London—’ he waved his arms ‘—and the bombs and this horrendous mess.’ He nodded, took a gulp from a glass of water on a nearby table and waited for their reaction.