She raised the matter as tactfully as she could, to be answered by a cheerful: ‘Oh, yes. Know what you mean. En garde again. What a bore! I wonder what the going rate for me is in England? In India – did you know I’d just got back from India? – it was a thousand pounds a pop. Some over-rich politico – whom I may not name – was brazenly offering a thousand-pound reward to anyone who would lob a bomb at me. Everyone knew who he was. And I had to sit opposite the fiend at a couple of dinner parties. Can you imagine?’
Lily agreed that conversation must have been a little stilted and dared to ask whether he’d been aware of any attempts actually being mounted.
‘I’ll say! Hard to ignore those quantities of explosive! Not always stable in a hot climate, you know. One or two of the bombers blew themselves up by accident and the security forces raked in the rest. Stout fellows, the Indian police force! Ah! Here comes a quickstep. That’s more like it. I say – may I have the honour?’
They’d warned her that he was indefatigable. Lily was glad of the hours she’d put in pounding the pavements of London – any girl less fit would have crumbled after a few dances with the energetic sprite she was teamed with. She was relieved to sit out the slower dances at a table at the edge of the dance floor, a spot carefully chosen, she guessed, to be in full view of the room. There they were joined by an equally carefully chosen succession of the prince’s old friends and a scattering of quiet-eyed, handsome young men of military cut. Lily heard a few names: Fruity This, Basher That, Pogo Someone Else, and failed to commit them to memory. She even, for the sake of appearances, took to the floor for a veleta with Pogo Someone Else, leaving her charge between two young Branch heavies for the duration.
The women who danced by their table all tried to catch the prince’s eye. Most seemed to be dark though there was a smattering of fair Anglo-Saxon beauties and even one or two redheads. Not one looked remotely threatening. No one tried to get too close to the prince. This was proving to be a wild-goose chase. The ring of security set up around them was surely impenetrable. With pity and a sinking heart Lily wondered whether this was to be the prince’s future: a gold-plated, steel-barred cage.
She looked with dawning admiration at the lively man, determined to enjoy his evening come what may. He was preparing to join in the serious business of the evening. Before they went through to supper, the all-important money had to be raised from the well-heeled gathering. And Edward was fully aware, she was sure, of his role in this. On top of the already expensive ticket price, a series of auctions was to raise yet more cash. Everything from a glorious Fabergé ornament to a piece of bloodstained linen allegedly taken from the corpse of a long-dead Russian saint was on offer to the highest bidder. And what a coup – to be able to brag afterwards that one had just pipped the Prince of Wales to the post, outbidding him at the last moment.
Edward pitched his bids neatly, knowing exactly when to whip up interest and when to graciously withdraw. She noticed that he persisted sufficiently to acquire a jewel-encrusted Easter egg and a jade necklace. ‘For my mama,’ he confided.
The final two items caused a sensation. Neither of the lots had a real monetary value yet they raised approving smiles and nods.
The penultimate offering was – surprisingly – a painting. Two young girls in traditional Russian dress had been delegated to carry it around the tables for closer inspection. They paused for a longer interval by the Prince of Wales and his group and the hostess timed her explanation for this moment.
‘The painter, though of supreme talent, is largely unknown in the west. You may view other examples of his work, smuggled out of the motherland, in the Abercrombie gallery. This one is the most accomplished of the collection and is the only one for private sale. As you know, all photographic equipment has been banned from Russia.’ She paused to acknowledge the chorus of gasps and wails that ran through the audience. ‘The only means of recording the depredation that is occurring in our homeland is the medium of paint. It is at risk of his life that the artist has committed to canvas his view of the dismantling of a once-great land. These works have been brought to us safely here in London by the courage of many. It is impossible to put a price on this piece – the painter is without pedigree but his vision – dark and painful to our eyes – is, I believe, supremely original.’
Rupert, whose half-hourly duty rosta had brought him to Lily’s side, leaned to her and drawled: ‘Lord! You’ll never see that on a chocolate box! Touch of cubism, do I detect? How simply ghastly!’