The Blood Royal(135)

Coming to the end of the exchange, the princess walked to the bell-pull to summon Foxton. Lily was puzzled to see that she did not actually tug hard enough to make contact. A few moments later: ‘Foxton? Curse the man! Where can he be? I’ll show you out myself.’

At the front door and out of earshot of any listener, the princess grasped Lily’s hand and spoke urgently. ‘You have done your best. And now it’s up to me to do mine. You must understand that our loyalties are like railway lines … they are going in the same direction but they never actually converge. Disaster if they did!’ She smiled. ‘I have many irons in the fire – you know that. I trade with this side and that, trying to keep a balance, but my loyalties are always with my people. And Anna is very dear to me. I would move heaven and earth to protect her and achieve her happiness … if that is still possible. I have been making my own quiet arrangements to resolve our problem. But I see I must put on a burst of speed to keep up with Sandilands. He is moving faster than I would have wished.’

Her voice became more sombre. ‘I cannot promise I shall succeed. Great hatred runs deep and, once under way, gathers momentum and powers itself. It is not easily diverted from its course. In fact, I know of only one thing strong enough to counter it. An equally great love!’ Her face lit up with youthful mischief as she added: ‘What was the date of the sailing? So soon! I must make a telephone call to Paris without delay!’



Lily knew she was walking unsteadily, and put it down to euphoria. She took a deep breath of fresh morning air, hitched the leather bag more firmly on to her shoulder, set her eyes on the end of the elegant row of houses and made for the Thames.

It had gone better than she had expected. And faster – hastened by the princess’s understanding and anticipation. Passing the conversation anxiously in review, she couldn’t recollect a slip. She prepared to entertain Sandilands with her account. There were no taxis about to speed her journey but there was really no hurry and it was only a mile or so from Kensington to Westminster. She had time enough to stroll along down Birdcage Walk on her way back to the Yard. There was nothing more she could do. It was out of her hands and into Bacchus’s. The thought brought relief.

She passed Buckingham Palace, and wasted several minutes mingling with the crowd watching the guard change. She was skirting St James’s Park when the hairs on the back of her neck gave her warning. By the time she entered Great George Street with the Thames sparkling ahead of her, she was sure she was being followed. One of Bacchus’s men? With an unprofessional rush of mischief, Lily decided to flush him out. No shoelace business – these men would scorn such a ploy. The street was relatively empty. He should be easy to spot. She stopped abruptly and looked behind her.

A young woman in a cream linen walking suit was striding out in the opposite direction. Across the road, a nursemaid was pushing a baby in a pram into the park to visit the duck pond. A vicar in a black homburg hat had stopped to shake a rattle and coo to entertain this youngest member of his flock. Two men, walking purposefully, bowler hatted both of them and practically invisible on the London streets, caught her eye. One of these? Lily waited until they were within yards of her and she was sure of receiving an unprepared reaction, then stood in the middle of the pavement and nonchalantly lifted her skirt. She bent over and proceeded to straighten her stocking and adjust her garter. Whichever man she caught staring at her leg she reckoned would be an innocent city gent, the one looking hastily aside at the architecture would be Bacchus’s man.

To her confusion, both men stared and hurried by. One uttered a ‘Faugh!’ of disgust, the other turned and objected: ‘I say, miss! This is Westminster! The Wellington Barracks are a hundred yards back down the road. You’ve missed it.’ He pointed helpfully.

Lily was still shaking with silent laughter when her arm was seized from behind and clamped tightly to the side of a tall woman striding out towards the Thames. Lily had to scamper along to avoid being swept off her feet, such was the onward rush, the iron grip on her arm.

Cream-coloured linen, no gloves, no handbag. She’d left home in a hurry. But she’d snatched the time to pull on a cloche hat in natural straw. A waft of Attar of Roses confirmed Lily’s identification.

‘Anna?’ she murmured. ‘Anna Petrovna, is this you?’





Chapter Thirty-Nine




     ‘No. I’m Anna Peterson, my dear, according to my new passport. Thank you for that. And you, I take it, are Lily Wentworth. Constable in the British police force?’