‘Don’t upset yourself, my dear,’ Lord Delamere said. He nodded at the ice bucket. ‘What if we distribute some of that champagne, eh?’

The champagne was poured, candles were lit on the veranda and suddenly it was my turn again. I stood to the side of the first hoop and lined up the shot more carefully this time. I managed to get the ball halfway through the hoop but when I went to tap it again Delamere called out, ‘No continuation stroke – you haven’t run it through.’

I handed the mallet over. ‘I’m not helping much.’

‘You’re helping us,’ one of the new women said kindly. She pointed at my glass. ‘Here – have a top-up.’

We all moved to stand in a line along the west boundary now, watching Delamere’s play. The red ball was already through the second hoop, and he took it through the third and the fourth before his turn was up.

‘What do you think of that, eh?’ he said.

Sylvie had gone quiet since the argument about Black Harries, but now she swore. ‘Fucking goddamn it. Not twice in one day.’

I felt the mood change before Carberry reached us, and my heart sank. The conversation died out. Only Freddie looked comfortable still.

‘Ill met by moonlight, Carberry,’ he said.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Carberry said. ‘Talking about Johnny Bull.’

‘You’re British too,’ Freddie said. ‘Or Irish, at least. Have you forgotten, Baron Carberry?’

Carberry took out a cigarette. Sylvie was at the end of the line, and he leaned towards her, taking her wrist in his fingers. ‘May I?’

She shrugged, but I felt the revulsion coming off her. I took a long drink of my champagne.

Carberry lit his cigarette on hers, then stood back. ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said, blowing smoke out in a cloud. ‘But I got my American naturalisation papers six years ago.’

‘I hear they were revoked,’ Lord Delamere said. ‘For bootlegging.’

‘Finally,’ Sylvie said, crushing out her own cigarette in the grass. ‘Something interesting about you.’

Carberry nudged the yellow ball with his foot, sending it back towards the start. ‘I can’t wait to see your faces when your little Empire comes crashing down.’

Lord Delamere turned purple. ‘Look, Carberry –’

Carberry snapped his fingers at a waiter on the veranda and called over, ‘Bring me a whisky, boy. And don’t bother trying to cheat me on the chit – I can read.’

Nicolas stepped onto the court and picked up the yellow ball, returning it to its old spot. ‘Lucky for us I have a photographic memory. Excuse us while we continue play, Carberry.’

‘Which team are you on?’ Carberry asked Sylvie. ‘I’ll join you. One of the only good British exports, this game.’

She looked away.

‘It’s my turn,’ Nicolas said. ‘Take it if you want.’