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      Jack was whistling cheerfully while dressing himself in the poky bedroom of his lodgings. Never mind that his evening dress was shabby, he had long ago become resigned to such small drawbacks. Besides, he needed to wear evening dress so rarely that buying a new, more up-to-date version of what was now considered fashionable seemed a waste of money.

      What was more important was that he was going to see Lacey Chancellor again. He had spent the morning at Coutts where the Comptons’ bank balance was running along just above the fateful line which, if it were crossed, would land it in the red. One had to be grateful for small mercies. A junior banker had interviewed him, for someone so low down in the scale of things as Jack Compton was never interviewed by the top brass. A fact of life which the suave man behind the desk had taken as read.

      Tomorrow he would go home. However often he left it, or for how long, Compton Place would always be his home now. If Will had not been so gravely wounded he would have remained in the Army. Time, the death of so many young officers, and his own talents, meant that he had retired with the rank of Colonel and the lost promise of a bright future. That opportunity, like the Comptons’ wealth, was long gone.

      Tonight, however, he would forget all that. He would persuade Lacey that it would be to her advantage to visit Compton Place and examine its attics. He was sure that the Sir Jack, who had inherited in 1820, and who had restored the family fortunes, had almost certainly left behind records and documents which might throw light on the Pandora Compton who had married her ancestor, Ritchie Chancellor, and on other matters, too.

      Jack laughed at himself a little for inventing opportunities for seeing Lacey again. After all, Ashdown was only a short distance away from Compton Place by motor, and there was every reason why they should meet often. Examining himself in the shadowy mirror in the elderly wardrobe he thought that he almost looked like Fighting Jack again. It was funny how that nickname followed him around, even though it was not now applicable.

      Finally he was ready to leave. The taxi which would take him to the Lynchs’ home on Piccadilly would be arriving any minute and he could not afford to keep it waiting. He would return to his lodgings by the Underground since no one was likely to see him depart, whilst his arrival would almost certainly be noticed by the flunkies who guarded the entrance.

      He was right about that. A canopy had been erected before the door and a solid phalanx of guests was walking into the house beneath it. There were the usual watchers gaping at the quality while they amused themselves. It was something of a relief that they would not be able to see how threadbare a gent he actually was. The footman’s knowing stare, however, when he handed him his top hat, cane and gloves told him that he knew only too well that Mr Jack Compton was hanging on to his place in society by his teeth.

      Several people acknowledged him on the way to the stairs at the top of which his cousin was waiting to receive him. She seemed genuinely pleased, as did her husband.

      ‘Oh, Jack, I’m delighted that you decided to come. I rather feared that you might abandon town as quickly as you usually do. I know things are a little dire in Sussex, but surely you could manage rather more of the season than a few days in early May.’

      How to explain that with Will unfit to run things and so much to run, he really ought not to have stayed on to visit them at all? Jack didn’t even try. ‘Oh, I’m a country boy at heart, you know, and the land is a harsh mistress,’ he replied. Well, at least the second part of the last sentence wasn’t a lie, was his inward gloss on that!

      ‘You weren’t a country boy when I first knew you,’ remarked Louis Lynch with a wink.

      ‘Perhaps not,

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