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where are you calling from?’
    ‘The Pierre, and they’ve put me in the biggest hotel room I’ve ever seen. The bed could sleep four.’
    ‘Just make sure it only sleeps one.’
    ‘It’s got air-conditioning, and a radio in the bathroom. Mind you, I still haven’t worked out how to turn everything on. Or off.’
    ‘You should have taken Seb with you. He would have mastered it by now.’
    ‘Or taken it apart and left me to put it back together again. But how is the boy?’
    ‘He’s fine. In fact he seems more settled without a nanny.’
    ‘That’s a relief. And how’s your search for Miss J. Smith coming along?’
    ‘Slowly, but I’ve been asked to go for an interview at Dr Barnardo’s tomorrow afternoon.’
    ‘That sounds promising.’
    ‘I’m meeting Mr Mitchell in the morning, so I know what to say and, perhaps more important, what not to say.’
    ‘You’ll be fine, Emma. Just remember it’s their responsibility to place children in good homes. My only worry is how Seb will react when he finds out what you’re up
to.’
    ‘He already knows. I raised the subject with him last night just before he went to bed, and to my surprise he seemed to love the idea. But once you involve Seb, a separate problem always
arises.’
    ‘What is it this time?’
    ‘He expects to have a say when it comes to who we pick. The good news is that he wants a sister.’
    ‘That could still be tricky if he takes against Miss J. Smith and sets his heart on someone else.’
    ‘I don’t know what we’ll do if that happens.’
    ‘We’ll just have to convince him somehow that Jessica was his choice.’
    ‘And how do you propose we do that?’
    ‘I’ll think about it.’
    ‘Just remember not to underestimate him. If we do, it could easily backfire.’
    ‘Let’s talk about it when I get back,’ said Harry. ‘Must rush, darling, I have a lunch appointment with Harold Guinzburg.’
    ‘Give him my love, and remember, he’s another man you can’t afford to underestimate. And while you’re at it, don’t forget to ask him what happened
to—’
    ‘I haven’t forgotten.’
    ‘Good luck, darling,’ said Emma, ‘and just make sure you get yourself on to that bestseller list!’
    ‘You’re worse than Natalie.’
    ‘Who’s Natalie?’
    ‘A ravishing blonde who can’t keep her hands off me.’
    ‘You’re such a storyteller, Harry Clifton.’

    Emma was among the first to arrive at the university’s lecture theatre that evening to hear Professor Cyrus Feldman lecture on the topic,
Having won the War, has
Britain lost the peace?
    She slipped into a place at the end of a row of raked seats about halfway back. Long before the appointed hour the room was so packed that latecomers had to sit on the gangway steps, with one or
two even perched on windowsills.
    The audience burst into applause the moment the double Pulitzer Prize-winner entered the auditorium, accompanied by the university’s vice chancellor. Once everyone had resumed their
places, Sir Philip Morris introduced his guest, giving a potted history of Feldman’s distinguished career, from his student days at Princeton, to being appointed the youngest professor at
Stanford, to the second Pulitzer Prize he’d been awarded the previous year. This was followed by another prolonged round of applause. Professor Feldman rose from his place and made his way to
the podium.
    The first thing that struck Emma about Cyrus Feldman, even before he began to speak, was how handsome the man was, something Grace had omitted to mention when she’d called. He must have
been a shade over six foot, with a head of thick grey hair, and his suntanned face reminded everyone which university he taught at. His athletic build belied his age, and suggested he must spend
almost as many hours in the gym as in the library.
    The second he began to speak, Emma was captivated by Feldman’s raw energy, and within moments he had everyone in the auditorium sitting on the edge of