“Possibly not. But the scandal will finish you. You know it only needs to be mentioned – like the rumour about swindling … And there’s another thing.”

He paused, so that she was forced to look up at him again, fearful of what more could be coming, wondering how high he would build his wall of blackmail before it broke and overwhelmed her. She knew from the past that he would use any weapon to get what he wanted: the deadly knowledge stole away all her strength.

“There’s another thing …” The smile on his face was the smile of years ago – sly, vulpine, wholly corrupt. “America isn’t the only place I’ve travelled to, since the war. I was in Ireland, a couple of months ago. Looking at some horses. D’you know where I landed up?”

“No.” But she did know.

“Cloncraig,” he said.

“What of it?”

He came straight to the point. “The Costello parents are still there, both of them. They’ve heard about Esther, though they don’t know how to get in touch with her. They’d like to see her. They’d like” – his fingers flickered – “they’d like a cut.”

“They’ve absolutely no right to it.” For some reason this last piece of news shook her as nothing else had been able to: the whole carefully cherished structure of herself and Esther seemed on the verge of toppling in ruins. “They gave up all claims to her, years ago.”

“Did they?”

“Of course they did.”

“In writing?” She was silent. “You never adopted her, did you? She’s still their child, legally. If she’s earning money” – he smiled briefly, mirthlessly – “which wouldn’t be very hard to prove – they’re entitled to a share of it. They’re very poor,” he went on, with loathsome concern. “The law courts love poor people.”

“But I’ve done all the work.” Already her voice was nearly breaking with despair. “I’ve taken all the trouble.”

“Too bad … But it’s been a labour of love, surely, Belle? In fact, I’m almost sure you said so once, in a newspaper interview. People remember these things … You know, you’d better have another drink.”

As he said that, and turned from her, lifting the pressure of his own accord, she was suddenly and totally wearied of the whole thing. This was a battle she knew she could not win. It was true that a single breath of scandal – whether about Esther or the money or her own marriage – would be enough to destroy everything; and the idea of Esther’s parents coming on the scene again was the most desolate prospect of all.

Charles had all the cards – and he had something else, too. She knew now, with a kind of hopeless self-derision, that he was not ‘a man she had loved long ago’: in spite of the ruinous past, she was still in love with him.

While he was busy at the side table, she said, unexpectedly, soberly: “Why are you such a bad man, Charles? I never did you any harm.”