‘It’s not our intention to antagonize him. We’ll stay downstairs this evening,’ she said quietly, still staring at the angry marks on Kit’s back. His head was hanging down, his muscles clenched. ‘Hopefully it will help calm him down. I’ll tell Carlotta that we’ll have dinner in our rooms.’

‘Oh but—’ Ari said, as she went to walk away. ‘Didn’t Julian tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘You’d better check your phone; like I said, there’s no reception on the glacier . . . He told me he’s meeting you all at the Orsini Hotel tonight at eight. He’s booked a table for dinner.’

It was the very last thing she felt like. Her shoulders slumped. ‘The Orsini . . . it’s his?’

‘Oh yeah, he’s the big cheese round here.’ Ari sighed. ‘You’ll like it. It’s the swankiest place in town.’

She tried not to show her despair. This had been a very long and not great day. ‘Does that mean there’s a dress code?’

Ari rolled his eyes. ‘You’d better believe it. Julian doesn’t do casual. That man was born in a three-piece suit.’

Chapter Eight

‘What? No one said I would have to dress up out here!’ Johnny protested as Matty rolled her eyes again at his outfit. Clean was the best he could offer: jeans, a new pair of trainers and a long-sleeved vintage Guns N’ Roses t-shirt (the sleeves being the distinction between that and his non-formal clothes).

They were standing in a smart wood-panelled lobby with large country house rugs and library chairs in warm, smoky velvets. It was undeniably grand but the low-level lamps and squashy cushions gave the space a welcoming feel. Matty certainly looked very at home in a vividly patterned silk drawstring midi dress – bought pre-loved on Vestiaire – and slouchy black suede boots. Clover had had to borrow her pair of black Isabel Marant pirate trousers and a cornflower-blue blouse. Like Johnny, she had packed for action and adventure, not dinner with her grandparents.

‘Agh, no! I had hoped to beat you to it!’ an exuberant voice said.

They turned and were surprised to see a tall blonde man, early thirties, striding towards them. His legs must have been six foot tall alone, and he had incredibly deep-set dark eyes. He was wearing a slim-cut navy suit but with a jacket of the Austrian style – worn open – with a Nehru collar and brass buttons that closed to the nape of the throat.

Clover hadn’t given a moment’s thought to what their newfound ally might look like but she had automatically assumed grey hair, late fifties, paunch. And clearly, so had Matty; a small squeak escaped her.

‘Oh sweet Jesus. It’s Tom bloody Hollander,’ Johnny groaned.

‘You mean Tom Hiddleston, you berk,’ Matty said under her breath, making Clover choke with unexpected laughter.