Then a ripple ran through the room, and I turned, already smiling, to see the snake charmer. And my suspicions were correct, it was an extraordinary costume, which on a less naïve and charming individual would have been instantly engulfed in a travelling rug and ushered briskly outside. As it was, Sunny looked like a child dressed in a harem outfit, her wriggles for fun, not seduction, her innocence shining out under the sinuous creature that lay across her shoulders. The dress was not quite as form-fitting as the snake’s skin, but was not far off. What saved it were the multiple layers of scarf she wore over it, gauzy and shifting. The effect was that of a snake shedding its old and lacy skin for the bright, snug new one beneath. I tipped my head to the man at my side and murmured, “If they’re aiming her at their maharaja, all they have to do is make sure there’s a fancy-dress ball.”

“Pardon?” asked a strange voice.

Startled, I glanced up at the person beside me, whose ears were somewhat higher than those of my husband, and who might therefore have missed my hugely impertinent words. It was Thomas Goodheart, but to my enormous consternation, it was also Sherlock Holmes—not he of the Sussex cottage but the figure of stage and, recently, screen, complete with deerstalker, absurdly large calabash pipe, and tweed cloak.

I gaped at the figure, my mind working furiously to understand the meaning of his costume. Tom Goodheart, in the meantime, allowed his glance to trail down my own length of silk. “You would look at home in Jimmy’s palace, Mrs Russell. Very, um, authentic.”

“I, er, thank you. You too. That is to say, not in the palace.” You’re babbling, Russell, I said to myself. Stop it. “Your sister’s costume is extraordinary.”

“Isn’t it just? I can’t imagine what my mother had in mind, allowing that. Still, it’s not as bad as it was before she added the scarfs and scrubbed off her rouge.”

“She’s a great girl,” I said.

“Yes, she’s all right. She’s very fond of you.”

What is it about the subtle signs between men and women? The words themselves were completely innocent and his eyes remained on my face, but some tiny pause before the word “fond,” some slight emphasis of voice or intensity of gaze, made it abundantly clear that Thomas was talking neither about his sister nor about mere fondness. For the first time, I became conscious of a streak of iron beneath the waffle, and caught a glimpse of someone older and considerably more determined under the rich boy’s bland features.