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‘I’ll leave you here,’ he said, to make it easy, glancing at Wanda who had turned away from them.

‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘That was a really close call – she’s got the loosest lips in the county, I’m sure.’ Alex smiled sadly. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise. It can’t be helped.’

‘I’m not apologising. I’m sorry for me, Harry. I dare not even hug you.’

‘Best not,’ he cautioned.

‘I want to, though.’

He took a breath. He should just turn, walk away and not look back. And yet he lingered, searching for the right words to convey the enormity of how he was feeling. ‘Alex . . . it’s been —’

‘Too late,’ she murmured, looking past him, her expression filled with dread. ‘Here comes Matthew now. I feel ill.’

He didn’t turn. ‘Behave just as you did with Mrs Barraclough. You were amazing.’

‘Really?’ She cut him a look, daring to take her gaze off her approaching husband.

‘Point, wave and make me turn around so that I can be introduced. Go through the same charade and I’ll be gone as fast as you can say cocoa nibs.’ He said it to win a smile and she obliged.

‘Darling!’ She stood on tiptoe and waved. ‘There you are!’

Harry, now obliging her, turned as casually as he could in an effort not to over-dramatise his part and was shocked to see the unmistakable lope of James, the waiter from Alex’s father’s club in York. He noted that James was caught in the midst of laughing easily with the finely tailored gentleman he walked alongside. The clearly wealthy companion lifted his hand in equal surprise to see his wife and Harry could swear he detected dismay before a beaming smile pushed it aside and he began laughing with what Harry had to presume was pleasure.

‘I can do this,’ he heard Alex murmur frantically to herself. She stepped away to greet the man. ‘Good grief, Matthew, what are you doing here?’

‘My angel, I could well ask the same of you alongside such a handsome escort,’ he deflected, his gaze locking on to Harry. He took off a glove and offered to shake hands. ‘Good afternoon, I’m Matthew Britten-Jones, husband of this delectable creature you’re accompanying.’

The cold, formerly thin air felt as though it had instantly thickened around Harry as he obliged, removing his own glove to shake the man’s hand. He cut a slight frown at James, who caught it and shook his head once. Harry blinked in fresh confusion. The waiter looked positively terrified.

Alex hadn’t noticed any of this silent communication, Harry realised, because she was clearly too busy wrangling her own fears, and the necessary introductions. ‘Matthew, this is Henry Blakeney. I told you he was Harry Blake on the telephone – that’s apparently how he was known in his unit.’ Her voice had a different quality to it in her dismay. ‘He prefers Harry, though, and he’s up from London to visit Rowntree’s.’

‘Blakeney,’ Matthew repeated. ‘As in the Blakeneys of Southampton.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Harry admitted.

‘Excellent! Up here on business?’

‘No.’ He just caught himself from answering that it was purely for pleasure. Alex was fiddling with putting her car keys away, no doubt to hide her blush. ‘I’m in the north on a mercy errand for the family of a dead soldier. He was . . . well, I was part of a unit that was sent in after peace was achieved.’

Matthew gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘I fear the ghosts of the war follow us.’

It was such a meaningless placation. Harry knew Matthew had seen not a single gunshot of action and he couldn’t be bothered to respond. Now his and Alex’s attention was forced, out of politeness, to shift to James.

‘Sorry,’ Alex gushed. ‘How rude of me. I’m Alex, Matthew’s wife.’

‘This is James Feeney,’ Matthew introduced.

‘Hello, Mr Feeney,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Forgive me, should I know you?’

He removed his hat and seemed to hesitate before he pulled off his glove to shake her hand gently. The man gave a brief, obsequious smile that Harry recognised from the club. ‘No, Mrs Britten-Jones, we have not met previously,’ James replied and Harry sensed, rather than heard, a mocking undertone. He told himself he was imagining it.

‘So, you’re a colleague of my husband’s?’ Alex continued. ‘We just ran into Wanda Barraclough,’ she explained, as though that told Matthew everything. He obliged her with a wince.

Harry detected the slightest of pauses before James cut him a sharp, pleading look. ‘Er, not strictly. We do go back many years,’ he said. ‘I used to work for your husband’s family.’

Harry’s quizzical look deepened. Charles Frobisher had made a point of explaining that although James was from Bristol – as Matthew was – the two of them had not met prior to being connected with the Yorkshire Club. Someone was lying.