‘Lady Bailey has asked for an aperitif,’ he told me eventually. ‘She is beside the pool.’ He glanced at me a moment longer before striding away. I smiled to myself as I closed the door. It was as close to surprised as I had yet seen him.

Pernod, with very cold water, that was Lady Bailey’s afternoon habit. Her slim figure was not a fashion statement, I knew now, but a consequence of her devotion to her pipe. Most days, I would sneak extra things on to the tray with her drink: a bowl of salted almonds, or clean, brined olives, or tiny triangles of fresh baked bread from the casbah ovens. Sometimes she would eat it. Often not. That day, I loaded up the tray with whatever I could find, my new, fine clothes making me feel generous towards her. Since my arrival she had been distinctly cool towards me. Perhaps I would finally crack her exterior. It wasn’t until I stepped on to the terrace that I saw she was not alone.

Langham was kneeling beside her, one hand touching her arm. Where on earth had he come from? I hadn’t heard the car in the road, hadn’t heard the front gate open at all. My neck prickled. How long had he been back? Had I replaced everything properly in his wardrobe?

I was still standing there when he looked up. For a second, I couldn’t hide anything, not my surprise at seeing him, or my guilt at discovering the bloodstained suit. Hurriedly, I looked away.

‘Del Potro,’ he said.

Two words had never held so much meaning to me before. Were they a statement, a dare, a question? I said nothing. The silence bloomed between us.

‘Is that my drink?’ Lady Bailey’s voice was sharp.

‘Yes, madame,’ I murmured. Cheeks burning, I set the tray down beside her.

She said nothing more, only stared at me with her eyes shaded and her lips tight. I knew I should turn away, knew I shouldn’t look at Langham again, but it was impossible; it was as if my eyes were being pulled on a wire towards him.

‘You look very fine,’ he said. I opened my mouth to respond, but stopped, for he had stepped forwards until he was only a hand’s breadth away. ‘Though I’m afraid your tie is a little crooked.’

It was a lie: my tie was perfect. It was an excuse, a reason to come close.

‘Here.’ He pulled at the knot of the tie, to loosen the fabric. My heart was thundering and I knew he would see the pulse in my neck, feel my quickened breath on his skin. He smiled.

‘The red suits you,’ he murmured, hands still on my collar. ‘Though I think you would look better in green.’