There were times – and this was one of them – when May was sorely tempted to tell her mother what the true situation had been, and of how dishonourably and appallingly Frank had behaved towards Maudie. Again, she thought of how devastated her mother would be if she were to know what the true situation had been, and so she fought the temptation. Far better that her mother was disappointed in Maudie than that she ever learned the truth about Frank’s treatment of her, and of his involvement with a much older, married woman.

As her mother popped a mint humbug into her mouth and mercifully fell silent, May wondered if the nameless woman in Frank’s life had perhaps joined Frank abroad, although she couldn’t possibly have joined him immediately, because when they finally received a letter from Frank, it was one telling them he was staying with some of their father’s Württemberg relations who had a summer villa in Switzerland on the south side of Lake Constance.

A few weeks later had come a postcard from Cannes, and then one from Monte Carlo.

‘Monte Carlo,’ her father had gasped, poleaxed, and had fallen ashen-faced into an armchair. ‘Blackjack, baccarat, roulette! The boy is going to be ruined! And if we have to pick up his gambling debts, we are going to be ruined.’

When May had given Dolly an unedited account of what had led to Frank’s exile, his reaction had been simply to say, pale with shock, ‘God, what a fool Frank is! If he’d married Maudie, she would have been the saving of him. As it is, he’s ruined his life – or is well on the way to doing so.’

It had been an opinion that May had fully agreed with.

On her arrival at Marlborough House, and escorted by a footman, May made her way to a small, little-used drawing room that Maudie had made her own.

As soon as she entered it, Maudie ran towards her and hugged her hard. ‘You’re a life-saver, May Teck. Just the fact that, when I’m with you, I don’t have to pretend not to be heartbroken is worth its weight in gold. You have no idea how tiring pretending can be.’ They moved across to a chintz-covered sofa and, sitting down, she said, ‘What’s the latest news from Frank, May? Is he still in Cannes?’

‘No. His last postcard was from Monte Carlo.’