None of them had appealed to her. She wanted a different kind of husband, a husband who would take pleasure in the things she took pleasure in: music and books and flowers and gardens. Most especially she wanted a husband who would take pleasure in family life, not one who would regard his family duty fulfilled simply because the home he provided was grand and the lifestyle enjoyed in it was luxurious.

There was a tap on the door and a maid entered. ‘Excuse me, Fräulein,’ she said, accompanying the words with something that looked embarrassingly like a curtsey. ‘Dinner is about to be served.’

Vicky gave Paul a kiss. ‘I must go, sweetheart,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Goodnight. God bless.’

‘Night,’ he said. As she slipped from the bed, he snuggled down against mammoth goose-feather pillows, saying sleepily, ‘I love you, Aunt Vicky.’

‘And I love you,’ she said, her throat tightening with emotion.

She closed the door gently behind her and hurriedly made her way along the long corridor and down the marble and bronze stairway to the reception room, finding with relief that Harald Remer and her father and Zelda were still there and that she hadn’t disgraced herself by being late. With them were two young men.

Harald Remer made the introductions.

Josef Remer was introduced to her first and, as he clicked his heels and bent low over her evening-gloved hand, her immediate impression of him was that he was, in almost every way, the image of his father. Handsome in a way that didn’t appeal to her, he had the same short Prussian haircut, the same hard blue eyes, the same thin-lipped mouth beneath an immaculately clipped moustache.

Berthold Remer looked nothing like him and, as he too heel-clicked and bowed, she reflected that Zelda would be vastly relieved he wasn’t the elder of the two brothers. Not very tall, with mousy hair parted unflatteringly in the centre and wearing thick-lensed spectacles, he lacked the forceful presence of his father and brother.

As he raised his head, she saw with a stab of surprise that the expression in his light-coloured eyes wasn’t merely one of Teutonic politeness, but was genuinely warm and welcoming.

‘Is it true that Count Zeppelin’s airship nearly crashed on its record-breaking flight when it came in to refuel?’ her father asked Harald Remer with interest.

‘At Stuttgart, yes,’ his host said, obviously not best pleased at being reminded that Germany’s magnificent achievement had had its hiccups. ‘But it was nothing, Herr Hudson. The only consequence was that Count Zeppelin was unable to fly on to Berlin and be received here by the Kaiser.’

He frowned suddenly, seeing something at the far end of the reception room that violently displeased him. Reverting to German he harshly snapped an order at the manservant standing nearest to them.

The manservant ran off in haste and scooped a little dachshund into his arms. The dog, offended by the action, wriggled furiously.

‘It belonged to my late wife,’ Harald Remer said apologetically to his guests as the still-struggling dog was carried from the room. ‘An annoying animal that never knew its place, even when she was alive.’