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between his brand of religion, with its emblematic structures, and a new, moresecular order, dominated by a king determined to utilize Church power and wealth for his own advantage. Some choice! And yet Aske the merchant, in whose winter-gripped garden Harvey now sat, had been a Protestant beneficiary of the kingdom Henry Tudor founded. From nowhere, the image of Frances Graham drifted into his head. Her laugh, like Bow Bells peeling across a meadow urging Dick Whittington on towards London where a great fortune lay waiting to be claimed, stirred in his memory. Sod it, he thought. He was his mother’s son. If that was a choice, he’d made it.

C HAPTER

    T HE CANDLELIGHT danced off the silverware and glass, casting an indulgent glow across the animated faces making merry around the long table, before darting with their shadows into the castle walls like furtive lovers. The jazz singer Toots Malone was there and the Gambler John Beacher, along with assorted earls, duchesses and self-made men. All, like their host, had one thing in common: a belief that life was to be lived at full tilt, or not at all. From one end of the banqueting hall, Frances Graham, chatelaine of Graham Castle, oversaw the seamless performance of her staff as dishes were brought and empty plates cleared, always watching her husband’s powerful face for any hint of dissatisfaction, while still managing to charm the man on her left and the man on her right with words and laughter and coquettish smiles that stroked and teased and pleased, an amorous potion, convincing them they were in love.
    The conversation moved like quicksilver from guest to guest.
    â€œIt’s a bloody mess!”
    â€œIt’s the bloody government denying the workers what’s rightfully theirs.”
    â€œHow can you say that? If it isn’t there it hardly matters whetherit’s theirs or not.”
    â€œIf what isn’t there?”
    â€œMoney. If there’s no selling, there’s no earning and so no pay – simple!”
    Articulated thoughts jumped and sputtered and sped.
    â€œChrist, this winter’s bad!”
    â€œNot so bad if you like snow. The skiing’s been exceptional.”
    â€œI hate snow.”
    â€œSo where are you going?”
    â€œSouth Africa. Or Australia. Ginnie’s got a cousin there. One hundred thousand acres and a thousand head of cattle. We haven’t decided.”
    â€œJesus. That’s a hundred acres a cow!”
    â€œSo you can count. And they’re not called cows. You milk cows. These are beef.”
    â€œA technicality!”
    â€œI’d like to see you milk a steer.”
    â€œFran does it all the time.”
    â€œI expect she’s into Mickys, not steers. Isn’t that right, Fran?” Micky being the name Australians give to a free-roaming bull.
    â€œWell I married one, didn’t I?”
    â€œPerhaps we should all emigrate.”
    â€œOr take a leaf out of Richard’s book.”
    The conversation stalled for a moment at the mention of Richard Bingham, as if a dark spirit had entered the room. The public knew him as Lord Lucan, but to most of them he was a friend – a high roller, a charmer, a life-liver who had taken a wrong turn.
    â€œBad business that.”
    â€œEnough said,” commanded their host. “For god’s sake, cheer us up Toots!”
    The jazz singer’s expressive features rippled into a mischievous grin, the prelude to a short performance.
    â€œThere was a young girl from Cape Cod, who thought babies came only from God. But it wasn’t the Almighty who lifted her nightie, but Roger the lodger, the sod!”
    Richard Bingham’s cloud dispersed as quickly as it had appeared and the gathering was merry again.
    â€œPerhaps now would be a good time for the ladies to withdraw!” laughed Frances, rising to her feet.
    â€œWhy do we always get to miss the good stuff?” a female guest