It explained his excellent English and Vicky was just beginning to settle down to an enjoyable conversation with him, telling him of how her home, Shuttleworth Hall, was in Wensleydale—and of how pretty Wensleydale was—when she was interrupted by Harald Remer exclaiming loudly: ‘Ja, natürlich, Herr Hudson. Natürlich. Remer factories are not only one of Germany’s biggest producers of steel—second only to the House of Krupp—but we are also next to the biggest producer of clothing for the army and the navy. If Yorkshire wool is as superior as you claim, we will put large quantities to good use. Isn’t that so, Berthold?’

As Berthold was drawn reluctantly into the general conversation, Vicky felt a rough little tongue lick her ankle. Reaching down beneath the overhang of the lace tablecloth she touched the top of the dachshund’s silky-smooth head.

Knowing how speedily the dog would be removed if Harald Remer were made aware of its presence, she didn’t attract attention to it, hoping that if Zelda noticed the uninvited guest she would also say nothing.

On the far side of a giant silver epergne, Zelda was showing no sign of being interested in anything other than Harald Remer’s conversation. As she listened to him with flatteringly rapt attention, she too was being given undivided attention. Not from Harald Remer, but from Josef.

Vicky could quite understand why, for Zelda’s looks were striking. Though she didn’t like it spoken of, her paternal grandmother had been a Native American, an Iroquois, and Zelda had inherited not only her high cheekbones and cat-like eyes, but also her flawless olive skin and night-black hair. The vivid yellow gown she was wearing had been made in Paris and was cut in the very latest neoclassical style, low at the bosom and falling daringly straight to her feet. It was the perfect foil for her voluptuous beauty, and Vicky was well aware that her own gown was unfashionably provincial in comparison.

She was happily uncaring. When it came to clothes and jewellery, competition with Zelda was impossible. The five-string choker of diamond-clasped pearls and the dazzling array of diamond bracelets on Zelda’s wrists and arms were, for instance, no ordinary pieces of jewellery. Zelda had dressed to impress, wanting the Remers to be in no doubt she was a member of New York’s most exclusive social elite—a social elite that was at home mixing with kings, presidents and, given the opportunity, kaisers.

She also realized something else. The food on Berthold Remer’s plate was disappearing fast—and not because he was eating it. As he continued to take part in the conversation that now included his brother and her father, his hand would, every so often, move across his plate and then drop beneath the table.

Laughter fizzed in her throat.

The dachshund had known exactly whose feet to sit beside.

‘Wiener Schnitzel seems to be a very popular dish, Herr Remer,’ she said impishly. ‘Almost as popular as the side dish of little dumplings.’

‘Ah, those are called Nockerl. They are an Austrian dish much loved by north Germans.’