Nobody gave me a moment's attention. It worked perfectly; I was given a glass of champagne by a passing waiter, and strolled into the main reception room – already full of people and heady with the smell of perfume – where I leaned against a wall and watched to get my bearings and work out precisely how I should behave. Remember: such an event was as foreign to me as an Esquimaux wedding party; I needed to tread carefully. And I felt ridiculous. Evening dress was not my normal wear; I'd been more comfortable in the fisherman's oilskin. The fact that most of the women were far more ridiculous looking than I could ever dream of being was no consolation. Why they ever consented to such absurdities, how it was considered the height of fashion, eluded me. Had they possessed the stylishness of Elizabeth Ravenscliff, they might have succeeded. But most looked like plump middle-aged Englishwomen in a mask. Not for the first time, I was glad that I lived in the world of pubs and press rooms. Besides, how did society operate? Was it permissible just to go up to someone and start talking? Would I cause a scandal if I engaged some young girl in conversation?

Having achieved my aim of getting into the party, I realised that I hadn't thought too much about what I was meant to do next. I wanted to see Elizabeth, to warn her, to talk to her. But how to find her, even if she was there? All the women were in masks, and although I reckoned I could count on her to be more beautifully turned out than anyone else in the room, it was impossible to tell which one she might be. Some of the masks were tiny and did nothing to disguise the identity of the wearer, but a fair number were very large. All I could do was wander around, hoping she would notice me. If she was there, she didn't. Or maybe she was, but didn't want to acknowledge me. I was rapidly beginning to think this had been a bad idea.

'Glad you could come,' said a hearty voice beside me as I retired to the wall again and tried to be as visible as possible. I had attracted the wrong person. A tall, grey-haired man with a bristling moustache and a red face – mainly from a collar two sizes too small for him, so the fat of his neck hung down over it – was standing beside me, looking vaguely hopeful. He seemed bored with the whole thing, and desperate for any reason not to have to compliment some absurdity in frills.

'Good evening, sir,' I said, then remembered who he was. 'I'm pleased to see you again.'

Tom Baring peered at me, uncertainly, a look of vague panic passing across his face. He knew me; had met me; had forgotten who I was. Such were his thoughts, I knew. Nothing quite like embarrassment for making someone try harder.

'A meeting at Barings last year,' I said vaguely. 'We didn't meet properly.'

'Ah, yes. I remember,' he said, surprisingly convincingly in the circumstances.

'Family duties, you know . . .'

He looked a bit more interested. I had a family that had duties.

'In fact, the only interest in the meeting was the possibility that I might have been able to ask your advice. About a piece of porcelain.' A fairly desperate way of winning his confidence and establishing a connection, but the best I could do. And it seemed to work. He brightened immediately.

'Oh, well. Only too glad. Ask away, please do.'

'It is a dish of some sort. I was given it. It's Chinese.'

'Really?'

'Well, it is meant to be,' I continued with perfectly genuine vagueness. 'I was given it as a present, you see, and I wouldn't trust any old dealer to tell me truthfully what it is. I'd be too easily deceived, I'm afraid. I was wondering if you could tell me of an honest one.'

'No such thing,' he said cheerfully. 'They're all rogues and scoundrels. Now I will certainly tell you the truth. Unless it's really valuable, in which case I'll tell you it's worthless and offer to take it off your hands.' He laughed heartily. 'Tell me about it.'

'About nine inches across. With blue foliage – bamboo and fruits, that sort of thing.'

'Markings? Any stamps?'

'I believe so,' I said, straining to remember.

'Hmm. Not much help. From your description it could be 1430s, or made last year and sold in any teashop. I'd have to look at it. Where did it come from?'

'I was given it. It used to be on the mantelpiece in Lady Ravenscliff's sitting room.' To say she had given it to me was stretching a point, perhaps.

He raised an eyebrow. 'Not the Ostrokoff bowl?'

'I think that's the one.'

'Good God, man! It's one of the loveliest pieces of Ming porcelain in the world. The whole world.' He looked at me with new interest and no little curiosity. 'I have asked to buy it on many an occasion, but have always been turned down.'

'I've been using it to eat my breakfast.'

Baring gave a shudder. 'My dear boy! The first time I saw it I almost fainted. He gave it to you? Do you have any idea what it is worth? What on earth did you do for Ravenscliff?'

'That, I'm afraid, I am not at liberty to say.'

'Oh. Well, quite correct. Quite correct,' he said, still quite breathless and flustered. The thought of my boiled eggs had so rattled him that he was no longer in full command of his faculties. For my part, the memory of it flying past my shoulder and smashing into the wall came flooding back to me. An extravagant gesture. I almost felt flattered.

'Well – I shouldn't. But – well, battleships.'

'Oh, you mean Ravenscliff's private navy?'

I smiled, and tried to look nonchalant about the whole thing.

'I suppose you know about that?'

'Of course. I had to be brought in over moving the money around. I was very doubtful, I must say but, as you may know, we owe Ravenscliff a great deal.'

'Just so.'

'What exactly do you do . . . ?'

I looked cautious. 'I keep an eye on things. Quietly, if you see what I mean. Did, at least, for Lord Ravenscliff. Until he died.'

'Yes, indeed. Great loss. Very awkward as well. Bad timing.'

'Ah, yes.'

'Damnable Government, dithering like that. Although Ravenscliff was remarkably sanguine. All will be well, he said. Don't worry. He knew exactly how to persuade them to take the plunge . . . Then he dies. Typical of the man that he foresaw even that possibility, though. When we heard I must say we rather panicked. If the shareholders found out what's been going on . . .'

'Difficult,' I said sympathetically.

'Can you imagine? Telling our shareholders that the bond they thought was for a South African gold mine was in fact for a private battle fleet? I'd be picking oakum in Reading gaol by now. But at least I'd be in good company.' He laughed. I joined in, perhaps a little too heartily.

'Yet here you are.'

'Here I am, as you say. Thanks to Ravenscliff putting some nonsense in his will so no one can look at the books for a bit. It has bought us time. Although not much. I'm damnably worried about it.'

'So is his widow, I understand,' I said.

'Ah, yes. I suspect she may know more than she should. There was little Ravenscliff didn't tell her.'

'How is that?'

'Well, I don't know exactly what he said, of course, but I hear that she has hired some man to find this child. Which, of course, has the effect of making its existence all the more real. The more he bumbles around, asking questions, the better it is.'

Oh, God. I thought.

'Are you all right?' Baring asked.

'No,' I said. 'I've had a bit of a stomach ache all day. Would you think me terribly rude if I excused myself?'

'I'm so sorry. By all means.'

'Is Lady Ravenscliff here, by the way?'

'Of course not,' he said. 'She's in mourning. Not even in Cowes.'

'Really? I was told she was staying on the royal yacht.'

'Certainly not. I was there for tea this afternoon. No, I imagine she is still in London. I know she is no respecter of convention, but even she would not . . .'