‘Ooh, look, it’s from the genealogy website – you’ve got your results.’

‘I’d forgotten all about that.’ His finger curled around the Orange Pekoe, but at the last minute he changed his mind. Today called for Lapsang Souchong with its smoky pinewood flavour, which always reminded him of autumn.

‘Great news! The moment you’ve been waiting for is here. Click the link to see the results and your matches.’ Olivia read aloud from her phone while the kettle boiled and then flicked off.

‘Matches – what kind of matches?’

‘Oh, they always find distant cousins.’ She tapped the screen of her phone. ‘But you never know, it might really help you with your family tree.’

‘Well, that’s the thing. I’ve been wondering what’s the point, what with Gisele and Helen both being gone now.’

Olivia raised her eyes to him then, her face sympathetic.

‘Does there have to be a point to everything?’ she asked, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Can’t you do something simply because you enjoy it? Like dancing. Or birdwatching. Or trainspotting.’

‘Nay, it’s not that bad – let’s not go that far,’ Valentine grumbled, and she laughed as he poured the water into the teapot and added two scoops of tea.

‘Anyway, I think genealogy is far from pointless. I love finding out about our ancestors. How we’re all interconnected. It’s fascinating.’

‘So tell me, am I related to royalty then?’

Lifting the tray, he carried it into the living room. Harry had made himself comfortable on the blanket that he’d put on the sofa, and was asleep in the patch of sunlight streaming in the window. Olivia pretended not to notice.

‘Hang on, I’m logging in . . . I just need to remember your username.’

‘Username? What’s that for?’

‘It’s an alternative to using your real name, for security purposes.’

‘Bloody hell, they don’t half make it complicated.’

Sitting down at the table, he poured the tea while she peered at her screen.

‘It says your ethnicity is forty per cent British, thirty-five per cent Scottish, twenty per cent Irish—’

‘Well, that’ll be on my mother’s side.’

‘And there’s even five per cent Iberian Peninsula.’

‘Where’s that, then?’

‘Spain and Portugal.’

‘Well, the Spanish Armada did capsize off Ireland,’ he nodded, passing her the milk.

‘Ooh, and you’ve got some matches.’

‘What did I tell you? I’m landed gentry. Duke Valentine of North Yorkshire,’ he chuckled and sipped his tea, only Olivia didn’t laugh.

‘Well, that can’t be right.’ Her forehead creased into a sharp frown. ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘Why, what’s up?’

‘It says you’ve got a ninety-nine per cent match.’

Now it was Valentine’s turn to frown. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Hang on, there’s a thumbnail photo . . .’ She peered at her screen. ‘No, but that’s impossible.’ She turned the phone to him, so that he could see, but he shook his head.

‘It’s all blurry – I need my glasses.’

There was a pause and he noticed Olivia looking at him funnily.