I thanked him and went to find a car. Our chauffeur had gone with the shooting brake so I helped myself to the estate car rather than the Bentley. I hadn’t driven in months and I relished the freedom of sitting behind the wheel, driving along the familiar lanes with the windows down and the fresh breeze blowing in my face. There was no sign of activity at the dock today. It was still misty in places and I assumed that some of the group had been invited to take part in the shoot. Max, for one. When I came to a straighter piece of road at the far end of the loch, I put my foot down and felt the rush of excitement as the car picked up speed.

Obviously I was going a little too fast, but as I came around a sharp bend, I encountered a car going even faster. I was only conscious of a long, sleek shape hurtling directly at me. I swung the wheel. My car went up the bank, teetered, almost tipped over then righted itself again. I came to a stop with my heart pounding only to see the sports car speeding away in my rearview mirror.

“Bloody fool,” I shouted after him as he disappeared into a patch of mist. Yes, I know a lady never uses the word “bloody” but this was a moment of extreme stress. Besides, only the Highland cattle were around to hear me and they’d never tell. Then the mist swirled and I got a good look at the driver as he sped away along the lochside. It was Paolo, driving alone.

Of course my thoughts now ran riot: had he come at me deliberately, or was he just driving too fast in his usual reckless manner? I couldn’t come up with any good reason for Paolo wanting to kill me, but I found my thoughts straying to Ronny’s maid, who had been run down by a motorcycle at Croydon Aerodrome. Was that also Paolo and had he not even bothered to stop then? And of course it did occur to me that Paolo was just the kind of risk-taker who could have carried out the various things that had happened to us. But why would a rich Italian count wish harm on the British royal family?

I wondered whether I should say anything to Belinda. She was my best friend and Paolo seemed in every way unsuitable—not only was he a reckless driver with an obsession for speed, but he was also engaged to someone else. I didn’t want her to be hurt, but then, women in love don’t want to hear anything bad about the object of their affection, do they? If I said anything I’d have to be careful.