Sir Martin broke off his ramblings to greet two of his guests, elderly brothers, John and Alfred Sarrison, who wore matching clothes and pumps and identical idiotic grins.

‘What a pair of silly old fops,’ he snorted, when the brothers moved away to talk to other acquaintances in the noisy crowd. ‘They’re no fun,’ he complained. ‘Most of the people here tonight have no humour at all. Most of them have no class, all of them are boring. Except for you and Hezekiah, there’s no one here worthy of a bit of sport or a good session at the card tables. I may be getting on in years, my boy, but I can keep up with the best of ’em.’

‘I look on you as a most enduring ancient of days, Martin,’ Oliver said, with humour and sincerity.

‘Yes, yes, quite,’ the small, elderly gentleman nodded, with a dismissive wave of a podgy hand, ‘but if Rachael has not appeared within the next ten minutes, I shall order the musicians to begin the dancing. I’m paying a pretty shilling for them and this is still my house!’

Oliver sipped his wine with a wry grin. ‘However long it takes Rachael to get herself ready and make her appearance with your granddaughter and my wife, I’ll wager you that Hezekiah will take a good deal longer.’

‘Well, I won’t take you up on that,’ smirked Sir Martin, with a lift of bristly eyebrows. ‘Never have been one to put my money on a losing bet. Pity Judith passed on,’ he mused sadly, suddenly changing tack. ‘The best and most loyal servant the Beswethericks have ever had. She would have liked to have seen my seventieth… dear old Judith… but she didn’t suffer at the end, carried away by the angels in her sleep. Hope I go the same way when my time comes.’

‘Your time is a long way off yet, Martin,’ Oliver said firmly. Oliver Pengarron was a man renowned for his lack of patience but he had an unlimited supply with regard to the other baronet, who had taken to rambling more and more as the years progressed. ‘You may have had your three score and ten but you’re far from on the wane.’

‘Mmm, you could be right, Oliver. Where is that wretched woman?’ Sir Martin stamped his foot then cried out, ‘Ouch, damn me!’ because of his rheumatism. ‘I sent William up half an hour ago to hurry her up and he has disappeared. The trouble with Rachael is that ever since she learned what some of the ladies will be wearing at the coronation later this year she’s been trying to outshine the lot of them.’

At that moment William Beswetherick, Sir Martin’s eldest son, appeared at the top of the stairs with a serious-faced gentleman dressed in subdued autumnal colours who looked distinctly ill at ease.