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are missed.’
    ‘May I ask how much Mountbatten knows?’
    ‘Dickie’s a good man but he likes to talk. Tell him nothing. Tell no one anything. The curse of this job is that you are on your own. It’s a lonely life.’
    After lunch, at which Liddell did not appear, Edward slipped out of the drawing-room and went on to the terrace to smoke. The air was fresh but there was some warmth in the sun. He leant on the balustrade and contemplated the scenery. Beyond the lawn, the Test shimmered in the sunshine decorated with several pairs of swans. It was a sight, he thought, to calm the most troubled soul. ‘Capability’ Brown had laid out the grounds and in the process had altered the course of the river so that it would flow closer to the house. For a keen fisherman the Test was holy and Edward was wondering if he could ever get himself invited to take a rod when he caught a glimpse of a figure in a fur coat at the other end of the balustrade. It was Joan Miller. She, too, was staring at the view but, Edward guessed, seeing nothing of it. Her beautiful face was expressionless but for some reason he pitied her. Maybe it was her almost palpable loneliness.
    She was smoking a cigarette through a long white holder and the faint scent of Balkan Sobranie wafted towards him. She ignored him. He had no wish to break into her reverie and, tossing away his cigarette, prepared to go back inside. A husky, dark voice redolent of the soft Austrian of her native land halted him.
    ‘How do I escape this world?’ she demanded of no one in particular with all the drama of Garbo.
    For a moment Edward wondered if she was considering suicide. ‘Escape? Why do you need to escape? Most women would envy you and most men . . .’
    ‘Lust after me? Is that what you would say?’
    ‘You are very beautiful,’ Edward found himself admitting.
    ‘But you did not know who I was? I saw you asking your friend.’
    ‘I’m afraid I rarely go to the pictures, Miss Miller.’ He knew he sounded sententious if not censorious. The actress gave a little shrug of dismissal as if to say this was his loss not hers.
    ‘What right have I to be sad, you ask?’ Though he had not. ‘It is true I am not rich but my husband is. My jewels belong to Madame Mandl the hostess, not to me. My husband does all his business at the dinner table – that is why he is here, making himself pleasant to Lord Louis. He thinks that even now – on the eve of war – he can sell armaments to the British navy. Have you heard of the Oerlikon gun?’
    ‘No.’ Edward was surprised to find her so communicative.
    ‘It’s Swiss. Mandl says it’s much superior to the half-inch Vickers. I tell him the British navy will never buy from him and, if they did, the Führer would not be best pleased but he is so greedy. Apparently the Oerlikon fires a shell which can penetrate the armour of a U-boat and it fires at a rate of five hundred rounds a minute.’
    ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’
    ‘I’m not a fool, Lord Edward,’ she said sharply.
    ‘I never thought you were but . . .’
    ‘I’ve had to listen to him trying to sell it at so many dinner tables, I could repeat his whole spiel word for word but I’ll spare you.’ She smiled thinly.
    ‘Is it your husband you wish to escape? Does he treat you badly?’
    ‘If you mean does he hit me, no, he does not. He could not afford to have his beautiful wife appear with a bruise on her cheek. The bruise is on my heart.’
    Despite the drama in her voice, Edward was surprised to find that he believed her.
    ‘He keeps you captive?’
    ‘Yes. He wants me to return with him to Austria – or rather the new German Reich. Mandl is useful to Hitler.’
    ‘But you don’t want to go?’
    ‘When I was in Hollywood last year, Mr Mayer . . . you have heard of him . . . ?
    ‘Louis B. Mayer – the MGM mogul?’ Edward was rather pleased to recognize the name.
    ‘It was Mr Mayer who changed my name to Joan Miller. He promised me a film