‘Oh, I feel like mingling for a while,’ Fellowman replied, getting up and lighting a cigar. The game broke up and a few went to a drinks table, while another clutch huddled in a corner, laughing and slapping each other on the back.

I quickly placed the mask back over my face. Piers put his palm back on my thigh.

‘I’m with someone,’ I said.

‘I don’t see anyone here.’ He sounded aggressive.

Then a voice close to us – somehow right beside us, although I hadn’t seen him arrive – spoke. ‘Are you not in the mood?’ The sweating man jerked his head up at Fellowman’s voice.

‘No, not really,’ I replied, tying the ribbons of the mask before lifting my face to him.

‘Well, with fat old Piers here, who can blame you?’ he laughed. ‘Piers, you really must learn when a young lady isn’t interested.’ Piers laughed unnaturally heartily. ‘Come on, why don’t we find better company?’ Fellowman took my wrist and lifted me to my feet. One of the players emerged from a corner and mumbled something in his ear. ‘No. It’s out of the question,’ Fellowman told him. ‘Guy has made up his mind and that’s that. I’m not going to start second-guessing him.’ The man ambled away. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked me.

‘Catherine.’

‘Catherine. Are you enjoying the party?’

‘Very much so.’

‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’

‘I’m a friend of Adam’s.’

‘Ah, Adam.’ We were beside a balcony. He stopped, thought, and forced the balcony doors apart. One was stiff and groaned as it opened. ‘I need some air,’ he said. Out on the stone platform, he sighed and leaned on the balustrade. I had no idea what he wanted or if he had somehow just taken a shine to me. ‘Did you know Churchill once stayed in this house?’

‘I didn’t, no. That warmonger.’

He waved to someone inside the room. A young man appeared, and I knew in an instant that this was Greg, brother to Pete, who had walked me from the pub to the house. They had the same strong gypsy features, although Greg lacked the physique of a farm labourer. ‘A cigarette,’ Fellowman whispered. The younger man took one from a wooden case, lighted it between his lips and handed it to Fellowman, who placed it in his own mouth before gently touching him on the forearm in acknowledgement. He slipped away again, closing the doors behind him and pulling heavy curtains across them. ‘A warmonger? Oh, I wouldn’t call him that.’

‘No?’

‘It’s empty sabre-rattling. For American consumption. Old Mr Churchill knows we could close the Needle any time we like and he’s in our territory. Besides, our Soviet friends have twice as many warheads as the Americans, and who wants to fight a war that no one wins?’