Watkins shook his head. ‘Harry don’t like people knowing where he lives.’

‘I’m not leaving this room until someone gives me his address.’ Kate folded her arms, glaring at each man in turn. ‘I’m waiting.’

Chapter Seven

Kate did not know what she had been expecting, but Harry Trader’s residence came as something of a shock. She had thought vaguely that he might have rooms in one of the less salubrious areas, although perhaps not too close to Cable Street, but the address given to her by Spears took her to Finsbury Circus and a house that was even larger and more imposing than her parents’ home. Kate stood on the pavement, staring up at the elegant façade in disbelief. Surely Spears must have been mistaken. Either that or he was making fun of her. However, there was only one way to find out. She raised the lion’s-head door knocker and allowed it to fall on the metal plate. The sound resonated throughout what she imagined would be a large entrance hall.

Kate waited but she was suddenly nervous. How would she explain herself if a pompous butler opened the door and demanded to know her business? She could hear footsteps and she braced herself for whatever might happen next.

The door opened and Kate found herself face to face with a small, older woman dressed in black from head to foot.

‘Oh! I beg your pardon,’ Kate said nervously. ‘I think I must have the wrong address.’

‘You’re looking for my son.’ The woman took a step backwards, holding the door open. ‘Come in, my dear.’

‘No, really,’ Kate protested. ‘There must be some mistake. I’m looking for Harry Trader.’

The woman laughed. ‘Harry is such a tease. Come into the morning parlour and I’ll send for some coffee, or would you prefer tea?’

‘Coffee would be very nice,’ Kate said automatically. She followed the woman who claimed to be Harry’s mother across a black and white marble-tiled floor to a room overlooking the street. It was a hot day but, even so, a fire burned in the grate beneath an imposing and beautifully carved mantelpiece. Everything in the room, from the hand-painted wallpaper to the velvet upholstery on the sofa and chairs, and the flower-filled vases on pier tables, spoke of style, elegance and, above all, comfort.

‘This is very kind of you, Mrs Trader,’ Kate began awkwardly.

Harry’s mother chuckled as she sank gracefully onto a chair by the fire. ‘It’s Lady Lyndon, my dear. Do take a seat.’ Lady Lyndon reached for the embroidered bell pull and gave it a gentle tug.

Kate sat down obediently. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Harry has his reasons for keeping our name and address a secret. I know nothing of his business activities, and I don’t ask.’

‘So Harry Trader isn’t his real name?’