‘Well, if you do snare one make sure it’s a she and, if possible, one of your lot. Some of our backwoodsmen cut up rough when they see their English roses being plucked by brown fingers. Sorry.’

Pippa gave Sam an apologetic look while Farmer ploughed on. ‘How’d you like to be on telly tonight?’

‘Sure.’

‘He actually has some media experience,’ said Pippa.

‘Fuck me – then he’s perfect. Channel 4 News are doing a hatchet job on us. We could put you up – surprise the shit out of them.’ Farmer seemed thrilled at the prospect.

Emboldened by their attention, Sam felt a surge of confidence. ‘I’ll need a briefing.’

‘Good man. Play your cards right, we might even parachute you into a safe seat.’ Farmer scooped up his papers and winked at Pippa. ‘Do the necessaries, Princess.’ He offered Sam a warm, sweaty hand. ‘See you in Makeup. Jon Snow’s gonna love you.’

Chapter 21

21

Pall Mall

The smell of Hugh Buckingham’s club was a rich mixture of floor polish, port and old leather.

‘Excuse me, sir, if you would be so good . . .’ The ancient porter tottered into Tom’s path and raised a gnarled claw to his neck.

‘Oh – of course.’ Tom reached into his pocket and drew out the tie his mother had reminded him to bring. The porter sighed quietly, and glanced apologetically at the portrait of Wellington. But the First Duke’s attention was still focused on Waterloo.

‘Mr Buckingham’s waiting for you in the library, sir.’ The old man gestured jerkily, as if his arm was controlled by wires from above.

‘Thanks.’

As Tom went towards the huge double doors, he remembered his first lunch there with his father, just as he was signing up. It had been a difficult one. Put up to it by Mary, Tom’s mother, Hugh had been tasked to make one last-ditch attempt to deter him. Neither of them understood Tom’s military ambitions and were convinced it was all down to his wilfully rebellious spirit. His father’s pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

‘My dear boy!’

Several of the other readers jumped as Hugh Buckingham pierced the silence. He threw down his Telegraph and leaped out of his chair with an energy that belied his sixty-eight years. He was tanned and bright-eyed, with strong arms that clasped Tom in a brief but impressively firm hug.

‘Hey, Dad.’ It was months since he had seen his father. He had lost even more weight, having late in life discovered the joys of serious exercise. ‘Just looking at you makes me feel exhausted.’

Hugh clasped his waist.