‘I’m afraid the best I can offer,’ said Joe easily, ‘is the cuisine of the officers’ mess in the Rue St Pierre . . . A little uneven in quality . . . Though the wild boar my sergeant killed in the Ardennes forest and spit-roasted over an open fire was good. The wild thyme we scattered on the dried mule dung we used as fuel seemed to add a little je ne sais quoi. Yes, Mrs Vyvyan, I’ll be the judge of your wild boar.’

Conversation at once began to rumble around the table concerning the best method of killing wild boar and other luckless game and Joe again wondered what quality it was that Lois Vyvyan possessed that so annoyed him. Normally of equable character, he was not easily needled into making a brisk reply but there was something about her challenging manner towards him that made him respond like a naughty schoolboy. Could she have formed a dislike for him so early on in their acquaintance? There was some emotion, he detected, lurking behind her frosty good manners but it only extended to him. He compared her chilly attitude to himself with her concern for Madeleine who was moodily pushing her first course around on the plate with a fork and failing to eat a single bite of the meltingly delicious terrine mousseline. Quietly, Lois Vyvyan leaned forward and suggested that an omelette might be brought instead. Madeleine flushed, smiled, shook her head and made a better pretence of eating. Smoothly Lois resumed her conversation with Stuart Mercer, seated on her right and, curious to hear what these two could have in common, Joe listened with half an ear. They appeared to be talking about Paris where Stuart had spent some time at the end of the war. Typically, in her well-bred way, Lois was not drawing him out on his wartime experiences; the blood and chaos of war were unsuitable topics. They were exploring the safer territory of his post-war impressions of life in the French capital. Lois showed the correct degree of awe and disbelief as Stuart recounted how, egged on by his friends, he’d flown his plane between the legs of the Eiffel Tower. She went on to question him on heights and air speeds and appeared to understand Stuart’s replies which was more than Joe could have claimed.

Joe’s eyes moved with what he hoped would be interpreted as the unexceptional curiosity of a newcomer around the members of the group. His experience in Military Intelligence had taught him that valuable information was often given away by a look, a gesture, a hesitation, and he had grown into the habit of watching people interact with each other, picking up clues to their relationships and even motivations.

Half-way through the first of the dishes, Shubhada’s table napkin slid from her silk-covered knee and fell at Joe’s feet. Instinctively, he bent to pick it up, only marginally faster than the waiter who also hurried forward. As Shubhada herself was also leaning over to retrieve it, Joe’s face, to her embarrassment, brushed her arm and they just, by a neck-breaking manoeuvre on Joe’s part, managed to avoid banging heads together.

For a few minutes Joe lapsed into a surprised silence. Perhaps Lizzie might be able to give him the information he needed: had the Guerlain salesman paid a visit to the palace recently? He stored up with pleasure the thought of intriguing with Lizzie. It had been Shalimar. Definitely Shalimar. The slim brown arm had been touched with the spicy Parisian scent and he had caught a waft of it on her face or in her hair. His keen senses had caught the same perfume on Lois Vyvyan. Incongruous on the Lavender Lady, he had decided, but this perfume, exotic, yet sophisticated, a warm, mysterious cocktail, could have been created with Shubhada in mind. Were the two women aware of this clash? Perhaps they hadn’t even noticed.

But surely Claude had?

Or did Claude assume all female skin smelled like that? He looked again at Claude seated between Lizzie on his left and Edgar on his right. Claude leaned towards Lizzie listening with unfeigned interest to what she was saying, smiled and made a reply which caused her to hiccup with suppressed laughter. A natural charmer who didn’t even seem to be aware of it, Joe decided with a pang of envy. The best kind, the kind who had the confidence not to need to seek approval. He wondered if Claude had ever stood on a doorstep in a lather of indecision, uncertain of his welcome, shooting his cuffs, straightening his tie and swallowing? Joe couldn’t imagine it. The merry blue eyes, the clever slanting smile, the mop of hair, thick and shining as a young boy’s, must always have drawn attention and approval.

Though not, he remembered, from Edgar. Wisely, Edgar had been placed between Claude and Colin O’Connor so no lady had the task of making polite conversation with him. He was happily yarning with his old tiger-hunting friend and in no danger of annoying anyone.

At the end of the magnificent meal, which had indeed included a dish of wild boar that Joe pronounced ‘nonpareil’ and had ended with a range of sumptuous desserts including the recreation of Mount Everest in meringue, cream and chocolate, it was Lois who caught the eye of the ladies and murmured to Shubhada, ‘I think we are ready to withdraw, Your Highness.’ Shubhada rose to her feet and with gracious smiles led the small group of ladies from the room.

At once, bottles of port and brandy and silver cigar boxes were laid on the table and the gentlemen, left to themselves, unconsciously stretched out their legs, ran a finger round their collars and surreptitiously eased open a button on their jackets. Voices grew gruffer and more animated. Edgar launched into a not-entirely decorous story and the first subdued laughter of the evening rippled around the table.

A servant entered and spoke quietly to Vyvyan who nodded and sent him off again. ‘We are to be joined,’ he announced to the table, ‘for brandy by the Dewan who, as I expect you are aware, has been up to his ears sorting out today’s problems. Joe, you’re the only one who hasn’t yet met the Dewan, I think. He’s the maharaja’s older brother and you’ll see the family resemblance. Zalim Singh is . . . I suppose you’d call him prime minister . . . grand vizier . . . he plays Thomas Wolsey to Udai’s Henry VIII. Nothing much happens in the state of Ranipur that he doesn’t know about.’

Did Joe imagine the slight flick of an eye in his direction as Claude said that?

‘The Rajput Sir George, are you saying?’ Joe began.

‘Oh, not in the same league, I’m afraid,’ said a deep and amused voice from the door.

Zalim Singh came in smiling, expansive, confident of his welcome. Unlike his brother who had chosen to wear Western evening dress, Zalim was impressive in a white silk coat and trousers and jewelled turban, thick ropes of pearls around his neck, golden slippers on his feet. He was as tall as his brother, being well over six feet, but more massively built, and the impression of glowing good health and strength he gave out was at odds with Joe’s expectations of a man whose life of politician and courtier was lived out in the shaded corridors and antechambers of the palace.

‘“Grand vizier”, however?’ Zalim smiled. ‘Yes, I rather think I like that! I’m sure I’m no Thomas Wolsey, though I confess I am not conscious of the gentleman. Did he have a happy life?’ he enquired blandly. ‘Commander Sandilands?’ he added, picking out Joe. ‘A friend of Edgar’s, I understand?’

His handshake was firm and brief, his smile warm. Joe reminded himself that the Dewan was known to have taken an excellent degree in History at Oxford. Settling companionably into the empty chair next to Joe, Zalim poured himself a brandy and accepted a cigar from Colin O’Connor. Joe had met men like this before: men who could light up a room with their presence. It was not an attribute solely of the wealthy or high-ranking: Joe remembered a private who, quite unconsciously, had had the same effect on whatever dug-out or filthy dark hole in the trenches he fetched up in. The barmaid at the King’s Head in Cheapside could have written a treatise on it – if she had been able to write. Joe’s housemaster would have called it ‘leadership’ but it was more than that. It had elements of optimism and humour and an ability to enhance the morale of any group in which they found themselves.