The Blood Royal(64)

Lily waited until the chauffeur had closed the door before she spoke. ‘She’s dark, sir?’

Joe looked uncomfortable. ‘I thought you’d guessed that she pulled the wool over Hopkirk’s eyes. Mine too. She had black eyebrows. The taxi girl.’

‘Harriet Hampshire?’

‘Or not. False name. False address when Hopkirk checked. Embarrassing! She was wearing one of those feathered cloche hats. I didn’t get a look at her hair. Very beautiful. A profile like Cleopatra. I think I’d know her again. And, as I rather pathetically noticed, rather emphatic black eyebrows.’

‘Sir, have you ever come across mascara?’ Lily asked tentatively. ‘And hair dye? I’ve got fair hair and brown eyebrows but leave me for an hour with a bottle of Inecto and I could be a brunette.’

The commander sighed.

They watched the wiry figure of Cyril making its way with a swagger towards the grand entrance and Joe shook his head. ‘Are we mad, Wentworth? Entrusting state secrets to the country’s greatest blabbermouth? I may have to arrest us for incompetence. We’d better keep our resignations polished and ready to go, I’m thinking.’

‘He’s clever and wordly. I’ll never fully understand him but I like him. Very much. But best of all, Cyril knows how to be discreet. He’s been practising discretion his whole life. I trust him.’

Joe analysed his stab of sour feeling as jealousy and rebuked himself. The implication behind her words was, of course, that she didn’t trust him. He ought to be pleased with his constable’s good judgement.

On an impulse, he reached into her lap, took hold of her right hand and tweaked the middle finger over the first. ‘Keep ’em crossed, Wentworth! Time to put your gloves on. Here we go!’



A dazzle of light, a surge of excited laughter, a babble of languages, and a rush of exotic perfume greeted them as they hesitated in the doorway, waiting in the queue to meet their hostess. The Princess Ratziatinsky, a small but impressive figure, was striking in a draped gown of black charmeuse silk with a tall aigrette fixed in place by a headband of gold tissue. She was receiving, a Russian prince at either shoulder.

They listened as she switched from the French she’d been using for the Ambassador and the Comtesse de Saint-Aubain to German for one of the Kaiser’s cousins. Catching sight of them, the grande dame deftly ushered the couples who preceded them straight through into the ballroom. She greeted Joe with a kiss on each cheek and a murmured message in English: ‘He’s here. Early’ into the right ear and ‘Half an hour ago’ into the left.

Alarming news, but Sandilands recovered to say swiftly: ‘Then we’ll go straight in. Your Highness, may I present Miss Lily Wentworth … the Honourable Lily Wentworth, a cousin from Scotland who’s visiting the capital.’

‘Your Highness. So good of you to ask me, ma’am,’ Lily said, dropping a curtsy.

Oh, Lord! He’d forgotten to mention the curtsy. She must have been observing the ladies ahead of her in the queue, he guessed, since the movement was entirely gracious and correct.

‘I hear you’re an expert dancer, Miss Wentworth. Come. I’ll present you to a worthy partner.’

She sailed away before them, headdress bobbing to left and right as she led the way between the dozens of small tables fringing the dance floor. Several couples were already moving enthusiastically in time to a foxtrot. The band was installed at the far end of the room. Rank on rank of green and gold jacketed musicians rose up on an ascending flight of wide stages. And in front of this smart company stood Cecil Cardew, undulating gently. He was famous for the smoothness and quality of his musicians and the strictness of his rhythm. Nothing but the best on offer this evening.

They were accosted just short of the dance floor by a handsome but unsmiling young man who seized Lily’s hand and kissed it lingeringly. The ominous words he was murmuring were aimed not at her but sideways at Sandilands.

‘There’s a problem, sir. It’s HRH. He’s disappeared. Ten minutes ago. Here one minute, gone the next. Cloakrooms and kitchens negative and secure. Doors and exteriors ditto. Kidnapped? Got bored and buggered off? It’s been known. Dunno. I think he’s still here somewhere.’

Sandilands’ flash of alarm was swiftly controlled. ‘Entertain Miss Wentworth, will you, Ruptert?’

He strode off, spoke briefly to the princess and then began to quarter the room.





Chapter Nineteen




‘Rupert Fanshawe. Would you like to dance, Miss … er …?’ the officer asked, eyes everywhere but on Lily.

Special Branch, Lily guessed. Bodyguarding royal personages was, after all, their forte. And, as far as anyone knew, their record was one hundred per cent success. They’d escorted British kings and queens throughout Europe and back again in total safety at a time when other monarchs had been falling like ninepins to bomb and bullet. They’d even saved the lives of foreign royalty venturing on to British soil, if the rumours were correct. They’d guarded the Romanov family on their state visit to Britain and all had returned to St Petersburg unscathed. Branch officers had Lily’s respect. ‘Not sure I’d enjoy it very much, Rupert … Cecil seems to have lost the beat, don’t you think?’