Vicky saw Berthold Remer’s mouth tighten, but whether it was because he was as annoyed as his father, she wasn’t sure.

The small-talk conversation she had interrupted in the reception room continued as they went in to dinner where, to her relief, she found herself seated between Berthold and her father while Zelda, at the far side of the massive dining table, was seated next to Harald and Josef.

‘Though Count Zeppelin didn’t have the pleasure of meeting with the Kaiser when his airship landed,’ Harald Remer said as turtle soup was served, ‘I had the honour of being among those invited to the planned reception.’

‘To the reception at which the Kaiser would have been present?’ There was nothing feigned about the vibrant interest in Zelda’s sloe-dark eyes.

‘The House of Remer plays a large part in the economy of our Fatherland,’ Harald Remer said pompously. ‘And I have often had the honour of entertaining Kaiser Wilhelm at Schloss Niedernhall, my family home in Baden-Württemberg.’

Zelda was suitably impressed and Vicky knew exactly what her cousin was thinking. Schloss Niedernhall would be even more vast than the Berlin mansion. Schloss Niedernhall would be palatial on a breathtaking scale.

As if reading her thoughts Berthold leaned towards her slightly. ‘It’s a two-hundred-room castle perched on a high crag, Fräulein Hudson,’ he whispered. ‘And quite, quite hideous.’

Vicky fought the desire to giggle, glad that his English was so flawless; glad that, unlike his father, he possessed a sense of humour.

‘No one has been able to live in it for years,’ Berthold continued as, for her father’s benefit, his father launched into a tediously detailed account of the differences between the German Navy League and the German Colonial League. ‘It is built entirely of steel and stone with cavernous rooms as high-ceilinged as steeples, and no one has ever been able to devise a satisfactory method of heating it. My late mother always referred to it as the biggest mausoleum in the world.’

The corners of Vicky’s mouth dimpled in a smile she couldn’t suppress. ‘And the gardens?’ she asked. ‘It must have enormous gardens.’

‘It has, but they are the worst kind of Italianate. All gravel and statuary.’

Vicky shuddered and this time it was Berthold’s turn to smile. He had, Vicky decided, a very sweet smile.

She said confidingly, ‘At my home in Yorkshire my father grows roses—and he doesn’t grow them the fashionable way, in neat and tidy beds. They rampage up the sides of the house and into trees and scramble down the banks of the river we look out on to.’

‘Wunderschön. And whereabouts in Yorkshire is this paradise? Is it in the Dales or on the edge of the moors?’

‘You’re familiar with Yorkshire?’ She was so surprised she abandoned toying with the carp fillets that had long since followed her soup.

He flashed her his sweet smile once again. ‘I finished my education at Oxford. As a result I have a great affection for England and the English countryside.’