“It’s ours to lose,” was the expression Sir Edward used during the consultation with Lady Virginia in his chambers on the Friday evening. He advised her to spend a quiet weekend, no late nights, and not to drink too much. She had to be rested, calm, and ready to do battle with Trelford when she stepped into the witness box on Monday morning.

“Just confirm that you always allowed Major Fisher, your professional advisor, to handle anything to do with Barrington’s. ‘At arm’s length,’” was the phrase he kept repeating. “You’ve never heard of Mr. Benny Driscoll, and it came as a great shock when you discovered that Cedric Hardcastle had been dumping all his shares on the market the weekend before the AGM. You simply felt, as a stockholder, that Mrs. Clifton should tell you the truth and not fob you off with a self-serving platitude. And whatever you do, don’t rise to Trelford’s bait, because he’ll try to tickle you under the chin like a trout. Swim in the deep water and don’t be tempted to come up to the surface because, if you do, he’ll hook you and slowly reel you in. And finally, just because things have gone well for us so far, that doesn’t mean you should become overconfident. I’ve seen far too many cases lost on the last day of the trial by a client who thought they’d already won. Remember,” he repeated, “it’s ours to lose.”

*   *   *

Sebastian spent most of his weekend at the bank, trying to catch up with a backlog of unanswered correspondence and dozens of “urgent” queries that Rachel had left in his in-tray. It took all of Saturday morning just to tackle the first pile.

Mr. Bishara’s inspired choice as the new chairman of Farthings had been greeted in the City with acclamation, which made Seb’s life much easier. A few customers closed their accounts when Sloane departed, but many more returned when they discovered his successor would be Ross Buchanan: an experienced, shrewd operator, with bottom, was how the Sunday Times described him.

Sebastian called his mother just before lunch on Saturday and tried to reassure her that there was nothing for her to worry about.

“He probably can’t get through. Can you imagine what the Russian telephone service must be like?”

But he wasn’t convinced by his own words. His father had expressly told him he would be back in time for the trial, and he couldn’t help remembering one of his papa’s favorite maxims, “There’s only one excuse to be late for a lady: death.”

Seb grabbed a quick lunch with Vic Kaufman, who was worried about his own father, but for a different reason. It was the first time he’d mentioned Alzheimer’s.