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‘Hotwells,’ James replied, lifting Matthew’s glass to his tray but not before holding it in such a way that it became a question. Matthew nodded and James continued. ‘My father was a seaman so we lived down by the port.’

‘Make mine a malt, James,’ Charles requested. He’d stop after this one so he didn’t arrive home smelling like a barrel. He watched James’s long arm snake out to delicately lift the as yet unfinished gin sling that sat before him.

‘I’ll remove this, sir?’

‘Nice enough, but not my poison. So what brings you to York?’

James gave a small shrug, catching himself just in time, Charles noticed. ‘The work, Sir Charles. I’m no sailor, but I’m very good at what I do and I think I have prospects here.’

‘Well, the build of you suggests you would make a fine sailor, if you don’t mind me mentioning your strapping appearance.’

James grinned and pearl teeth shone in the lowering light. ‘Years working at the docks and then I earned myself a role working in a top hotel and I was . . . well, seduced, you could say.’ He cut a quick smile at Matthew. ‘Anyway, I sense I shall enjoy my new life in York, sir, and I look forward to serving you . . . unless conscription chooses me to serve you in a different way.’

‘Very good, lad. Er, no ice,’ Charles cautioned and the new waiter gave him an obsequious smile that suggested even though he came from the other side of the sheets, even he wouldn’t dream of adding ice to a fine malt . . . or so Charles interpreted the look. Or maybe they had none stored in hay underground at present. He stopped wondering and returned to regard Matthew, who he noted was also watching the retreat of the waiter. ‘Young buck like that should be wrestling or boxing. He could earn his wage ten times over, I’ll bet.’

‘I don’t doubt it, Sir Charles,’ Matthew agreed, ‘although maybe he would be better trying to win roles on the stage as a leading man? Would protect that handsome jaw of his that boxing couldn’t.’

Charles gave the appropriate harrumph. ‘Heavens, but I want my pipe.’ At Matthew’s querying expression he added, ‘I’ve promised Minerva to cut back. She says my hacking cough keeps her awake even though I’m in the room across the hall.’

Matthew winked. ‘Life must have its pleasures, sir.’

‘Indeed. So, what is it? Spit it out. I know you didn’t call me to chat about my health.’

‘No, sir. It’s about Alex.’

‘Straight to the point. Good fellow. I hate feeling as though I’m being handled.’ James was back, light on his feet for one so tall and impressively broad. He set down the squat crystal glass before his client. ‘This is the Aberfeldy single malt, sir.’

‘A favourite of mine,’ Charles acknowledged, looking over at Matthew. ‘Dewar’s own it, on the banks of the Tay. Closing apparently for the war.’

‘Why’s that?’ Matthew asked, as James refreshed his glass of gin.

Charles could smell the spritz of lemon zest spangling from the gin concoction in his immediate space and sat back to escape it. It wasn’t unpleasant but he wanted none of the dewy, honeyed flavour of his precious malt to be spoiled. As much as refused to physically visit the place, Charles liked to taste Scotland from afar and in this moment he wanted to savour the rugged highlands of Scotland, not the orchards of the Mediterranean. He smiled to himself at the thought as James withdrew.

‘Oh, they need the barley to feed everyone so the distillery will likely close soon for the duration of the war. Makes this stuff even more precious. Cheers, m’boy.’

Matthew lifted his glass and nodded at him. ‘Cheers, sir.’

‘Alex,’ Charles returned, preferring not to hedge either. ‘I’m sure I can guess. She has this effect on most men. Problem is, she doesn’t know it.’

Matthew’s eyes narrowed with amusement over the rim of his glass. ‘I find that part of the attraction, sir. Her no-nonsense, unaffected way is deeply reassuring. I steer clear of needy or especially flirtatious women.’

Charles chuckled. ‘Flirtatious women have their place.’

‘Not in my life, sir. I like a strong, independent woman.’

‘Good grief, Britten-Jones, whatever for?’

Matthew sighed. ‘So we can live rich lives. I couldn’t bear to have someone wondering about my every move or counting down the minutes to my return, checking through my pockets, languishing in my absence. I like a woman who has her own interests, feels utterly in charge of her own life.’

‘And you think you’ve found her?’

‘I have. I knew from the moment I first spoke to her and heard her slight disdain that I was going to enjoy her. Today, I believe your daughter and I found some common ground. I have to at least ask, sir, what my chances are.’

It was Frobisher’s turn to sigh. His thoughts turned to Peter and how he wished it was his son sitting nearby, perhaps sharing his views on this prospective new member of the family. Peter . . . no, he wouldn’t be here even if he were alive; he’d have been one of the first to volunteer, he was sure, and would be in a trench somewhere. He reluctantly pulled himself from the memory of his son and returned to the future of his daughter. Privately he knew it wasn’t his decision; ultimately it would be Minerva’s but with his stamp of approval. She’d already chosen her daughter’s top-three suitors but it was true that their conversation late last night led him to believe that Minerva was enthusiastically encouraging a fourth name. She had said to him as he finally pecked her goodnight that if Matthew Britten-Jones asked the question, then the answer from them would be yes. ‘Have you asked my daughter?’

‘In so many ways. Perhaps I’ve frightened her but time is short for me, sir. As you know, I have to return to Bristol.’

Charles nodded. ‘There’s the added complication that one of the more likely matches, Duncan Cameron, is returning on leave very shortly. I know he’ll be expecting an answer from Alex as his proposal goes back two years. He’s so keen I reckon he’ll marry her on the spot.’