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Harry watched Alex’s fizzing laughter as he stamped off the light fall of snow on his shoulders and hat sleeves. ‘It began just as I left,’ he said, slightly breathless from the chill, and grinned at her pleasure.

‘You look like you’ve been dusted with sugar crystals,’ she admitted.

He saw a stern-faced woman approaching and quickly worked out why his hostess was speaking so formally. ‘Mr Blake, this is Mrs Claybourn, our housekeeper.’

‘Congratulations, sir.’

He frowned. ‘Er, thank you, Mrs Claybourn. Why am I being congratulated?’ he enquired, taking off his hat and gloves.

‘I’m saying that to every returning soldier I meet, sir. Not only have they kept us safe but they’ve kept themselves safe . . . no easy task, I’m sure,’ she said with one raised eyebrow. He had no idea what that look meant. ‘Here. Let me take your coat, sir. You both go into the warm sitting room. I’ll be serving supper in —’ she glanced at her wristwatch, ‘twenty-eight minutes.’

‘Military precision, that’s what I like,’ Harry remarked.

‘Well, I thank you for being prompt, Mr Blake,’ she replied, turning on her heel and moving towards what he presumed was a cloakroom. He cast Alex a look of dismay behind the woman’s back and his host gave him a mock glare in return.

‘Come on inside, Mr Blake,’ Alex said, ushering him into a surprisingly smaller room than he’d imagined, given the house they were in. It was nonetheless elegant despite its size. ‘Can I fetch you a warming nip of something?’ She closed the door behind them and now she did let out the chuckle. ‘Excuse her, please. She’s like that to everyone, including me. But I do love Norma. Her heart’s bigger than this house and she cares for us so well.’

‘No, really, I love that dismissive attitude; reminds me of childhood.’ He grinned.

‘I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought you into what I now call my salon? It warms up quicker and I find it cosier than the formal rooms. Plus, as you can see, I am deliberately not dressed for anything but a casual supper.’ He could tell that she genuinely cared he was comfortable.

He made a point of sliding his gaze around the room. ‘I prefer lack of formality, to tell the truth, especially after years in the military. This is a delightful space and I feel privileged to be in what strikes me as one of your private chambers.’

He watched her shoulders relax. ‘I spend a lot of time in here these days.’

Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that remark, so he busied himself looking at two paintings on the wall.

‘Drink?’ she offered again and he turned to watch her glide towards a liquor cabinet. She had a way of walking as though the ground barely felt her touch. He fancifully wondered if she’d leave footprints in the snow but kept this thought to himself as he moved deeper into the room, closer to the fireplace. ‘What’s your fancy tonight?’ she added, gazing at him over her shoulder.

‘Now there’s an intriguing question,’ he replied in a wry tone. She cut him a soft look of exasperation. ‘Er, I’ll have a whisky, please, but only if we drop the formalities and you call me by my name.’

‘Agreed,’ she promised. ‘Whisky, eh? A man after my father’s heart.’ She poured from a heavily carved crystal decanter into a matching squat crystal glass. Rich, bronze liquid gurgled into the glass and he watched her inhale as though enjoying the aroma of the liquor. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured with pleasure, confirming his suspicion. ‘If it didn’t give me a headache, I’d love to share a nip of this with you. Matthew never touches the stuff, but this is my father’s poison; it’s as though he’s in the room the moment I take off the stopper and smell its honeyed sweetness. I have to keep it for when he visits – you’ll meet him tonight, actually.’ She handed him the glass with its syrupy liquid and returned to the drinks cabinet. ‘I’ve invited my parents over, if that’s all right?’

‘For appearances?’

She finished pouring herself a sherry and turned back, letting her gaze rest on him. ‘Something like that.’

He clinked the crystal against hers. ‘What shall we drink to?’

Her brow knitted momentarily and then loosened as she smiled. ‘How about we drink to your soldier: Tom Fletcher, wasn’t it?’

He didn’t think he could like her more until that moment. ‘To Tom,’ he repeated, and tried not to stare as they sipped. ‘Ah,’ he said, feeling the liquor’s mellow warmth descend. ‘That is smooth indeed.’ Harry followed his host’s gesture and settled into the armchair opposite her.

‘Single malt from Isle of Islay, off the west coast of Scotland, with a distillation industry that dates back to medieval days. Irish monks began it, apparently. When the excise tax was introduced in the seventeenth century, it became an illicit pastime in the hidden glens of the region and they just got better and better at producing it.’ The detail rolled off her tongue with enthusiasm that fired in her eyes.

‘You sound like you know the history.’

‘Oh, a little bit. Our family used to spend summers in Scotland. My favourite place in the world.’

‘Not any more?’ he queried, noting the wistful tone.

‘No. Not since my brother died in an accident there. We are kindred souls, Harry – both brotherless.’

The disarming directness of the statement convinced him he shouldn’t explore this topic. Instead he nodded and remained silent for several long heartbeats but offered no apology because he loathed the emptiness of placating phrases and he’d yet to think of one that said more than I’m sorry. Harry noted she looked relieved at his lack of further enquiry. ‘This is a beautiful home,’ he remarked.

‘It’s very large. Matthew would prefer to keep an equally large staff but I choose otherwise.’