‘So I’ve been told, but I want to go there. If I can get away from here unnoticed, will you come with me?’

‘Well, ma’am, put it this way – you ain’t going on your own.’

Next day, as luck would have it, Patricia announced at breakfast that she had an appointment with a modiste in Bond Street.

‘You’ll find it very tedious, Rosie. I suggest you take Fletcher and visit the British Museum or the National Gallery. I hope you don’t mind, but we can meet up this afternoon. Perhaps we’ll go to Gunter’s and sample their delicious ice cream and cake.’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ Rosalind said casually. ‘I would love to visit the National Gallery or the museum.’

‘Good, that’s settled. Tonight we’re dining with some of Greystone’s political colleagues so I hope there are no other old acquaintances likely to turn up.’

‘Last evening was a coincidence. I hardly know anyone in London so it won’t happen again.’

‘I should hope not. You used to lecture me on my behaviour and now I find I’m having to keep you in order. Mama would find that very droll.’

‘I’m sure she would.’ Rosalind finished her breakfast with more of an appetite than she had displayed recently. She knew exactly what she was going to do this morning, and it was not spending hours gazing at beautiful works of art.

She waited until Sir Michael had left for his office and Patricia had taken the barouche to Bond Street. Fletcher had Rosalind’s furlined cloak, bonnet and gloves in readiness, and they managed to leave the house without Foster spotting them. Fletcher hailed a cab and Rosalind sat back, doing her best to control her nerves. Colonel Munday’s description of Alexander’s work and the place in which he lived had preyed on her mind during a sleepless night. She had awakened even more determined to see him and demand an explanation.