Peter raises his glass and nods, solemn-faced. ‘When you have been surrounded by angels, you want to pay a small tribute to them.’

‘Don’t upset my fiancée, Lazenby.’ Ralph leans forward, frowning at his friend. ‘There are some things I’d prefer her not to hear about.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harriet says, hurriedly. ‘I didn’t mean to… I’m sure the memories must be horrid.’

‘Not at all,’ Peter rests back in his chair. ‘Not all memories of France are bad. Quite the reverse. I met Ralph there, after all.’

‘You did,’ she laughs, picking at her skirt, grateful that the awkwardness has passed. ‘And now you must tell me about the Angel. I want all the gossip. And the more unsavoury the gossip, the better.’

‘As the lady wishes.’

‘Careful, now,’ Ralph interjects. ‘You should know that Harriet is a budding newspaper reporter. Anything you say might find its way to the front pages by tomorrow.’

‘Spoilsport,’ she says.

‘A reporter? Well, in that case, I shall be very careful. Perhaps only the stories about politicians like Ralph –’

‘Hey! Not even that!’ Ralph grins. ‘She won’t want to marry me if she hears your tales. And her father will chase me out of town. Keep it clean and light, eh? Miss Littlemore is too innocent and virtuous for your sordid stories.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Littlemore, you said?’ Peter cocks his head to one side. ‘Not Gerald Littlemore’s daughter?’

She pulls a face. ‘Oh dear. That’ll be the end of it, then. Once anyone mentions my father, everyone turns serious, talking only of politics or shutting me out of the conversation like a child.’

‘Not a bit.’ Peter takes her hand. ‘If you’re Gerald Littlemore’s daughter, then allow me to regale you with a story that is anything but dull – and has nothing whatsoever to do with politics, because you will be bored by that. Only a singer, a trumpet player… And his trumpet.’

‘Ah, I know this one,’ Ralph says, settling back in his chair. ‘You’ll enjoy this, Harriet.’

Peter Lazenby is a natural raconteur. He has an ability to spin a richly tapestried tale, without, she realises, saying anything indiscreet at all. Everything is in the hint, the suggestion, the innuendo. She is not so innocent that she misses these and blushes deeply when she catches the vulgar meaning. He is witty, charming – probably even when one is not growing giddy with gin – and amusing. He alters his pitch and style when she laughs, hints at darker subjects, dishonest staff, drunkenness, adultery, love affairs. It all sounds like such a game. She is still being treated like a child, she knows, but he does it in such a lively and raffish way that she does not mind too much.

She sips her drink, laughing along. The bartender brings more cocktails and another glass of champagne.