I looked for Langham. I tried to see him eating, tried to guess at his face, but every time I thought he was about to bend towards a dish I lost sight of him. Eventually, the platters were emptied down to scrapings and skin, and people began to drift off, towards pools of light or quiet shadows. Only then did I come forwards to clear the plates, relieved and frustrated. For all his words, I had never once seen Langham eat my food.

On the cushions, Lady Bailey lay insensible with her head in the lap of another man. The long, slim pipe hung loose in her hand. If she and Langham truly were together, then where was he at such a moment?

‘Leave that,’ a low voice told me. I turned and found Bouzid. ‘Monsieur wants to see you. In the study.’ He pointed to the farthest end of the veranda, where I could just see a pair of glass doors, open to the darkness.

My body gave a thud of anticipation. ‘All right,’ I muttered. Bouzid was holding out his hand for the apron. It obviously wouldn’t do to wear it in there. Gritting my teeth, I took it off, hunching my chest. I wanted to go back to the kitchen and fetch my jacket, but Bouzid blocked my way.

‘You should not keep him waiting.’

I had no choice but to walk into the shadows, trying surreptitiously to check that the bindings were still tight around my chest, praying they hadn’t slipped in all of my activity. Too soon, I came to the glass doors. I was sick with nerves, all my arrogance, my kitchen magic seeping away. Had I fooled Langham? Would he actually consider hiring me? The others had eaten my food; I had bewitched them, in whatever small measure, but him …

‘Del Potro?’ His voice drifted from the darkness. ‘Come in.’

I stepped through the doors. Beyond was a large room, lit by a single oil lamp that rested on a desk. Its flickering light caught varnished wood, papers, the corner of a leather writing case, where two initials glinted gold. A flare of orange in the darkness made me look up. Langham was leaning there, barely visible save for the end of his cigarette.

Abruptly, I became aware of the cooking smells that clung about me; hot oil and onions, garlic and lemon sharp on my fingers.

‘You wanted to see me?’

Another flare of the cigarette. ‘I did.’ He moved forward to sit on the corner of the desk before me. He was so close that his own scent began to mingle with mine. I breathed waxy pomade and sweat-damp silk, tobacco and roses, the blunt sting of liquor. His voice was as quiet as the smoke. ‘I want to know what you’re doing here.’