‘Fate has decided it for me. I was offered a position in the War Office, but I’m not the sort of man who can sit behind a desk all day, telling others what to do. You know me, Rosie.’

‘Yes, I do.’ Rosalind turned her head at the sound of footsteps.

‘Alex,’ Piers said cheerfully. ‘I was just going over the accounts for last month, then I realised it would be a good place for you to start. Unless you’re tired after your journey, of course.’

‘No, I’m fine. I have to begin somewhere. If you’ll excuse me, Rosie, I’ll allow my brother to start educating me into the fascinating world of china clay.’

‘You should rest, Rosie,’ Piers said firmly. ‘You do too much as it is. You must let Hester take over the running of the household from now on.’

‘Really, Piers, I’m not an invalid.’

‘No, but you’re carrying the heir to Rockwood and Trevenor. He’s going to be a very influential person when he grows up.’

Rosalind sighed. ‘Bertie inherited the baronetcy and the property, Piers. If anyone is to be his heir it should be Tommy.’

‘Tommy?’ Alexander looked from one to the other. ‘Who is this person?’

‘He’s a child,’ Rosalind said hastily. ‘A poor little boy who had been sold to work for a ruthless chimney sweep.’

‘It seems that he’s Bertie’s love child,’ Piers said with a dry smile. ‘No doubt Rosie will tell you all about it later, but for now I want you to come with me and start learning the business.’

During the next few days Rosalind saw very little of Alexander, as he spent most of the time with Piers, going over what she imagined would be deadly dull accounts and the workings of a successful mining business. They met up in the formal atmosphere of the dining room for meals, but Rosalind rarely managed to get a word in edgeways as her mother monopolised the conversation. She had a captive audience and she was obviously making the most of being the centre of attention. Claude looked on fondly and Rosalind could only admire his devotion to her mother.

At the end of the first week after Alexander’s arrival Felicia announced that she was missing Patricia and she intended to visit Greystone Park. As Rosalind had feared, that outing included her, and as she could not think of a plausible excuse to remain at home, she dutifully accompanied her mother.

Sir Michael received them in the Chinese room, where the walls were covered in hand-painted paper depicting exotic birds and flowers. The furniture and porcelain vases reflected the same theme, as did the oriental rugs and framed oil paintings.

‘How kind of you to call on us, Mrs de Marney,’ Sir Michael said, smiling. ‘Won’t you take a seat? I expect you want to see Patricia.’