Helen was delighted Marcus got so many presents, it made her feel less guilty about standing him up again on the night of his birthday. Marcus didn’t mind. On the strength of the cheques he’d been given, he had just bought a second-hand Steinway on the never-never and was dying to try it out. It had arrived late that afternoon after Helen had gone out, and, big, black and shiny, was now dominating the charming porcelain-crammed drawing-room at the Old Rectory, like a bull trying to be good in a china shop. Marcus hoped Helen wouldn’t be too upset by the intrusion.

She’d been so strange lately, ringing up and pleading he came home for supper, sobbing that she couldn’t stand another evening on her own, then he would find a brief note when he arrived, saying that she’d had to go out, after all, leaving him nothing for supper.

Having heated up a tin of tomato soup, and noticed some surprisingly sexy underwear, gold satin french knickers, with a matching bra and suspender belt, clinging to the side of the tumble dryer when he put in his shirts, Marcus settled down to the Bach Preludes. The Steinway was magical, unlike the brute at Cotchester where every note had been like lifting a ton of coal.

He so wished Malise was still alive. Helen pretended to be interested in music, but he and Malise had really been able to dissect pieces together and Malise’s detached, kindly criticism had been such a help and a comfort. Marcus hoped he was OK in heaven, he had been such a courteous man, but strangely shy underneath. Perhaps he was playing duets up there with Boris’s wife, Rachel.

Miss Chatterbox used to tell Marcus that he must practise as though he was performing, even if it were only for the cat. Tonight, to make up a little for letting him down at the funeral, Marcus played for Malise.

About midnight, he started to worry. Outside he could hear the foxes barking. The central heating had gone off, so he put a hot-water bottle in Helen’s bed and turned on her bedside light. She was only saying yesterday how she dreaded sleeping in a big empty bed, reaching out in the night to find Malise wasn’t there.

To his relief he heard the front door bang. He had never seen his mother look so beautiful. She was wearing a dress of crushed tobacco-brown velvet, which caressed her wonderfully slender figure and brought out the red-gold highlights of her sleek bobbed hair, which seemed to gleam with health for the first time in months. She wore no lipstick, so her slender oval face was dominated by her huge hazel eyes. Marcus didn’t recognize the necklace of amethysts which ringed her throat as softly flattering as violets, nor the long dark fur coat slung around her shoulders, nor the flat, but beautifully cut dark brown shoes, which set off her perfect ankles. Helen had arched insteps and always preferred high heels.

She was so spaced out, she didn’t even notice the new piano. As she hugged Marcus, she reeked of a musky feral scent she had never worn before. Why was he so instantly and disturbingly transported back to that end-of-term concert at Bagley Hall? Then Helen, who drank very little, amazed him by suggesting they open a bottle of Malise’s ancient Sancerre.

‘For your birthday,’ she said tenderly. ‘I can’t believe it’s twenty-one years since I first held you in my arms. You’ve brought me so much joy.’

But as soon as he’d fetched the bottle, which was covered in cobwebs and in no need of being chilled, from the cellar and poured it out, Helen raised her glass, and said she must share her great happiness with him.

‘Oh Markie, I’m going to marry Rannaldini in Chelsea Register Office tomorrow.’

‘You what?’

Then it all came spilling out, the weekend in Prague, the cancelled evenings, her almost suicidal misery at Christmas, and all because Rannaldini had backed off, not sure if he was capable of making a commitment.

Marcus was utterly aghast. Mrs Edwards had dropped some heavy hints that a foreign gentleman had been calling. But Marcus assumed it was Boris. Boris would be heartbroken.

And of course, that explained the kissed-off lipstick, the new fur coat, the amethysts and the flat shoes so she wouldn’t be taller than Rannaldini. Her other great love, Jake Lovell, had been small.

She even smelt of Rannaldini, the same disturbing scent that he had wafted round the hall years ago when he had arrived so late for the school concert.

In despair, Marcus begged his mother not to go ahead with the wedding.

‘Malise has only been dead five months, Mum. Rannaldini’s a monster. You don’t know him. Actually he’s worse than a monster. He’s a cold-blooded sadist who wiped out Rachel, and Flora and made Kitty’s life a nightmare.’

‘You haven’t heard his side,’ said Helen, who was in a pontificating mood, to justify the white heat of extreme sexual passion and the joyous expectation of becoming mega-rich again. Rannaldini, she explained, was so caring. He was going to put on a concert to raise thousands for her branch of the NSPCC, which would attract maximum attention now that he had been awarded his knighthood.

‘He’s specially composed an elegy for sad children. It’s so beautiful. And he’ll buy you your Steinway outright, and help Tabitha in her eventing career. I believe in redemption,’ Helen smiled mistily. ‘Rannaldini came into my life and saved me when I’d reached an all-time low.’

‘So you’ve settled for an all-time gigolo, Lady Rannaldini,’ said Marcus savagely.

‘Don’t be obnoxious, you sound just like your father.’

‘You were nearly destroyed by Dad’s philandering.’

‘And look what happened when Daddy met the right woman?’ reproved Helen, though even now she had a slight edge to her voice. ‘You never stop telling me how blissfully happy Taggie’s made him.’

‘At least warn Dad, it’s only fair,’ begged Marcus.

‘No, no, he’ll do something horrible to sabotage it. I deserve some happiness, Markie, I’ve been so desolate since Malise died.’

If Helen hadn’t wept and begged, Marcus would never have gone to the wedding, but he could never bear to see his mother cry.

Earlier that same day, Tabitha had had another blazing row over the telephone with Rupert because he still refused to buy her The Engineer.

‘You shouldn’t tangle with inferior regiments,’ Rupert had snapped, and Tabitha had hung up on him.

Late the following afternoon, Taggie, in an attempt to heal the breach, had rung Bagley Hall to find out if Tabitha would be coming home for the weekend, only to be told that Tabitha’s mother had taken Tab out of school for a very special occasion. Her house mistress had been very mysterious and refused to let on what it was.

In a rage — how the hell was Tabitha going to pass any exams if she was always being yanked out of school — Rupert telephoned Helen in Warwickshire. Getting no answer, he rang Bagley Hall and left a furious message that Tabitha must ring him the moment she got back.

Tabitha finally telephoned so early the following morning, Rupert was still asleep.

‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’

‘In London. At Mum’s wedding, since you ask.’

‘Wedding!’ thundered Rupert.

‘Yes, at Chelsea Register Office. She really looked gorgeous in pale crimson silk like the Tailor of Gloucester, a big dark crimson hat and some gorgeous garnets. I thought you’d be pleased — she won’t need to ask you for money any more. And you’ll never guess who she’s married.’

‘Who, for Christ’s sake?’

‘Rannaldini. He’s really, really nice.’

For once Rupert was silenced.

‘Are you there, Daddy? We all had lunch at the Ritz afterwards.’

‘We?’ said Rupert ominously.

‘Marcus and Jake Lovell were witnesses. Gosh, he’s attractive,’ said Tabitha blithely. ‘And Rannaldini’s going to buy Marcus a Steinway as a joining-the-family present, and guess what? He’s bought me The Engineer — so nice to have a father who loves me again — and Jake Lovell’s going to train him. Mum’s going to adore being Lady Rannaldini.’

Rupert went ballistic, particularly when he saw the exclusive in the Telegraph.

‘One of the bonuses of marrying the most beautiful woman in the world,’ Rannaldini was quoted as saying, ‘is that I acquire two beautiful step children, Marcus and Tabitha. As a musician and an owner, I intend to help and guide them in their chosen careers. Malise was a brilliant horseman, a flautist, and a wonderful stepfather. I hope they won’t feel his loss too much any more. They have both been delightfully welcoming.’

As well as a picture of the happy couple, there were also photographs of Rannaldini smiling at Tabitha with his arm possessively round her shoulders and, worst of all, of Marcus beside Jake.

The telephone rang. Rupert dived on it.

‘How about your ex marrying Rannaldini?’ said The Scorpion.

Kitty read out the Telegraph piece to Lysander.

‘Wowee, game and first set to Rannaldini,’ he said in horror.

‘He’ll break her,’ shivered Kitty.

Helen had been dreadfully patronizing to her at Christmas, but she couldn’t wish such a fate on anyone.

Kitty jumped as the telephone rang. It was Rupert. Had she got Rannaldini’s telephone number in London?

He was so appalled and enraged at the thought of Rannaldini getting his filthy hands on Tabitha that he rang up at once. Helen and Rannaldini were still in bed, later to fly to Milan, where Rannaldini was conducting Don Carlos at the Scala. Poor Marcus picked up the telephone.

‘Why the fuck didn’t you stop it?’