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man at the window replied. ‘And have them bring up a bottle of champagne, there’s a good fellow.’
    As the manager withdrew, the other man poured two large glasses of dry sherry from a heavy decanter standing on the sideboard and handed one of the glasses to his companion.
    ‘So,’ he said, taking up the other glass, having lit a cigarette from his own silver case. ‘That, then, is that.’
    ‘That then most certainly is that,’ the other agreed. ‘Or rather that then most certainly is the end of that bit of that. The rest of it – or that, depending entirely on how one sees it – the rest of it starts now. And with that in mind I drink to your good fortune, and your future happiness.’
    ‘And I to your future in the Antipodes,’ his companion replied. ‘
Bon voyage
.’
    The other man smiled.
    ‘Mm, quite.
Bon voyage
indeed.’

Chapter Three
    THE HOUSE WAS a painting of a winter landscape executed by a talented artist of some sensitivity. The air was as still as a summer day and the fresh fall of snow glistened under the January sunshine. Emmaline’s carriage drove carefully up the long driveway, which was still being cleared by a small army of estate workers armed with shovels and brooms. Naturally the two coach horses were only allowed to walk, their feet clad in sacking to prevent snowballs from forming in their shoes and the wheels of the carriage studded with small spikes to prevent them from spinning or skidding.
    From under her wrap of two heavy wool rugs Emmaline could not help but feel stirred at the sight of the ancient house and the fine parkland under its mantle of snow. The carriage passed by one of the great trees that lined the driveway, and as it did so a welt of snow slid from a thick branch, stripping off as quickly as an evening glove taken from a lady’s arm by an impatient maid, while the horses walked slowly round the sweep to the front of the house and into the full beneficence of the sun, so that Emmaline found herself shielding her eyes against the brilliance of the reflected light.
    From nowhere a servant, well muffled against the weather, appeared to open the carriage door with outstretched mittened hands. The end of a red nose was visible above his scarf, and a pair of half-shut dark eyes took due note of the slim and elegant young woman in her fur-trimmed velvet travelling clothes and fur muff, who was now being helped from the carriage by her travelling companion.
    ‘Here we are, Miss Nesbitt,’ Mr Ralph said, once he had got his charge safely to the ground. ‘All in one piece, praise be. Still, be careful, mind – you might have come halfway round the world in a week but icy steps like these could still carry a person off.’
    On his arm, Emmaline carefully climbed the flight of stone steps leading to the half-glassed double front doors, which were opened from within the moment she appeared before them. A man in liveried uniform bowed as they entered, then all but silently shut the doors. A vast fire of huge logs burned and crackled in the hallway grate, and yet the great house was so cold that any visitor would have had to stand very close to the blaze to feel any warmth. In spite of the comfort of her father’s last gift to her – a thick fur cape to be thrown over her travelling clothes – Emmaline shivered as she stood in the echoing stone -flagged anteroom taking in the apparent vastness of the house, while Mr Ralph informed the butler of their identities.
    ‘Miss Nesbitt and Mr Ralph,’ she heard him say. ‘For Mr Aubrey.’
    Turning, Emmaline saw a look in the butler’s eyes which she realised she was either too tired or too unversed to be able to read, although she was quite sure it was not a warm look of welcome. The grave-faced servant only made a half-bow before walking slowly across the hall and opening a polished wood door.
    ‘If the young lady and your good self would like to wait in here, Mr Ralph,’ the butler announced, ‘I will try to locate