he dinner had been in progress for some time. Emma sat at the head of the long mahogany table in her splendidly appointed Adam dining room, surrounded by her children, their spouses, and her grandchildren. The food was superb, the wines were excellent, and now a certain conviviality prevailed. Everyone appeared to be relaxed, their jealousies, hatreds, and differences buried or well concealed behind their smiling facades.

All the clowns wear masks, Emma thought, borrowing a line from a poem she had once read, for she detected an undercurrent of tension in the atmosphere, although to a degree it was less pronounced than when she had arrived in the drawing room earlier, on the arm of Jim Fairley. Her grandchildren, who loved her dearly and were fiercely loyal to her, had greeted her with enthusiasm and great affection, the camaraderie they shared most apparent. Her children had been amiable enough, if somewhat reserved, but Emma had been conscious of a cautiousness in some, veiled hostility in others, a wariness in them all, with the exception of Daisy.

She had been sardonically amused to see that the four conspirators had assiduously avoided each other. However, she had not missed the apprehensive glances Kit and Robin had occasionally exchanged when they thought they were unobserved, yet they, too, had remained aloof from one another. Even Elizabeth, who was as close to Robin as ever, had adroitly sidestepped her twin, hovering attentively over Blackie, fawning and flattering him. Edwina had remained by the side of her son all through the cocktail hour. The engagement had been announced, champagne toasts given, congratulations effusively offered, and despite their obvious surprise when they learned she had accepted a Fairley into the bosom of her family, her children’s expressions had hardly slipped.

Now, in the flickering candlelight, as she toyed with the dessert on her plate, Emma looked up from time to time, surreptitiously regarding the four culprits, her green eyes watchful beneath the hooded lids. She had the advantage. A lifetime’s experience in dealing with people had augmented her natural ability to assess her children’s individual capacities and handicaps. She had discovered their flaws long ago and they no longer baffled or surprised her. She could read each one like an open book. After tonight she would not have to bother. The book would be closed.

Her eyes rested briefly on Kit. How like Joe Lowther he had become over the years Plodding, phlegmatic, and lacking in imagination or initiative. And what a monumental fool he had been to throw his lot in with Robin, who would double-cross him at the drop of a hat. She shifted her glance to the latter. How handsome Robin looks tonight, she thought, and experienced a twinge of pain. Robin had always been her favourite son and the knowledge that he had been the instigator of the plot hurt more than she had realized. He was urbane and suave, the true dyed-in-the-wool politician, facile of tongue, the deal maker. Unfortunately, like his father, Arthur Ainsley, his overweening vanity was his fatal flaw, and it constantly obscured his judgements.

In many ways his twin sister was much shrewder than he, except that she rarely bothered to exercise that capacity. Emma glanced at Elizabeth, swathed in silver lamé and turquoise chiffon and dripping diamonds. Her problem was a desire to pursue pleasure to the exclusion of all else. Just like her father, too.

At forty-seven Elizabeth was still stunning, the real beauty of the family, but she was more highly strung than in her youth, brittle, and immature in innumerable ways. Emma thought: She’s a dreadfully unhappy woman. But then, when was Elizabeth ever happy? And how many husbands had she had since she divorced Tony Barkstone, father of Alexander and Emily? Emma had almost lost count. There had been Michael Villiers and then Derek Linde, by whom she had had the twins, Amanda and Francesca. After their birth Elizabeth had lost the taste for Englishmen, and had sought out more exotic fare. A Polish prince with an unpronounceable name, to be followed in quick succession by the Italian count, who was a good fifteen years younger. Some count, Emma thought dryly. More like a gigolo.

Emma now observed that the count was being excessively attentive to Edwina, who in turn was playing the role of the Dowager Countess of Dunvale to the hilt, acting condescendingly and with a display of superiority that was nauseating. How transparent Edwina was. After tonight, with the information she now had about her paternity, she would really feel obliged to turn up her snooty nose at the world.

Well, so much for those four, Emma remarked to herself with cold detachment. Little joy or comfort they’ve offered me in my old age. But they did give me my grandchildren and for that I will be eternally grateful. Emma put down her fork and sat back in her chair, smiling benignly. But her eyes were for ever watchful and if any of them had looked more closely they would have detected a cynical light glittering in their ancient depths. She moved her head and peered down the table at Blackie, who sat in the host’s chair, stately and distinguished. His hair was snow white but still abundant and wavy, his skin glowed with ruddy health, and his black eyes were as merry as they had been sixty years ago. He had become a majestic figure of a man, his bulk undiminished, his mind unimpaired, and he carried his old age blithely. He had outlived Winston and Frank, who had both died in the early 1960s within a year of each other, and David Kallinski, who had passed on in the summer of 1967. There are only the two of us left now, Emma thought. And Blackie will go on for ever. He’s an old warhorse. But then, so am I.

Emily, who was sitting further down the table, caught Emma’s attention, rolling her eyes upward, silently mouthing words Emma could not understand. She frowned and motioned for Emily to come to the head of the table.

‘What on earth’s the matter with you, Emily? You look as if you’re having a fit!’

Emily bent forward and whispered, ‘It’s Aunt Edwina, Grandy. She’s three sheets to the wind, and tilting. As usual. It’s all that wine she’s guzzled, plus the four scotches and the champagne before dinner. If you ask me, she’s got a drinking problem. She’s getting awfully snotty with Gianni. I know you don’t like him, but he’s harmless and he’s good to the twins and Mummy. I think she’s been abominably rude and he’s so uncomfortable. Mummy’s bombed, too. Not that that’s so unusual these days. Shouldn’t Hilda serve coffee?’

Emma patted Emily’s arm affectionately. ‘Good girl. I’m glad you told me. Now, do me a small favour and run upstairs. You’ll find my briefcase in the parlour. Put it behind the desk in the library.’

‘I will, Grandy. In just one minute.’ Emily returned to her place at the table, reached over, and picked up her glass. She stood behind her chair and cleared her throat loudly. ‘Please, be quiet, everyone!’ she pronounced in a strong voice. The buzz of conversation stopped abruptly and they all looked at her in surprise.

The self-confident Emily, who was never put out by anything, exclaimed, ‘Far be it from me, as a member of the younger generation of this family, to suggest that someone here has been remiss tonight. But I would like to point out that no one has proposed a toast to Grandmother, who has just recovered from a serious illness. I think we should drink to her continuing good health. For we all love her very dearly—’

Emily paused and glared at Robin and Kit, whom she detested. Her green eyes, so like Emma’s, were condemning. ‘And so I am going to propose a toast to her. To Emma Harte. A great lady. To whom we all owe so much. May she be with us for a long time to come. To Emma Harte!’

‘To Emma Harte!’ they said in unison, raising their glasses.

Emma was moved by Emily’s gesture. But, perhaps more importantly, she was proud of her twenty-one-year-old granddaughter. She’s got guts, that one, Emma thought, and she’s not afraid of anyone, least of all her uncles. Emma took in the furious expressions on the faces of her sons, and she concealed a small smile as she rose to her feet.

‘Thank you,’ she said, inclining her head. ‘And now let us adjourn to the library for coffee and liqueurs.’ And the last round, she added silently, thinking of the winning cards she had up her sleeve.