The causes had changed over half a century. All life had changed. How could the arbitrary, adoring and unimaginative young Victoria have foreseen the beautiful, ambitious and amoral Lillie Langtry? Or how could the earnest Prince Albert have found anything to say to the scintillating and eccentric Oscar Wilde, a man whose writing was so compassionate and whose words could be so glitteringly shallow?

And there had been an age of change between then and now, terrible wars that killed countless men, and clashes of ideas that probably killed even more. Continents had been opened up and dreams of reform had been born and died. Mr. Darwin had questioned the fundamentals of existence.

Vespasia bowed her head very slightly to an elderly duchess but did not stop to speak. They had long ago said everything they had to say to each other, and neither could be bothered to repeat it yet again. Actually, Vespasia wondered why on earth the woman was even at this diplomatic reception. It seemed a remarkably eclectic group of people, and it took her a moment’s thought to perceive what they could have in common. Then she realized that it was a certain value as entertainment… except for the duchess.

The Prince of Wales was easily recognizable. Apart from his personal appearance, with which she was perfectly familiar, having met him more times than she could count, the very slight distance of the people surrounding him made him more noticeable. There was a certain attitude of respect. No matter how funny the joke or how enjoyable the gossip, one did not jostle the heir to the throne or allow oneself to trespass upon his good temper.

Was that Daisy Warwick smiling across at him? A little brazen, surely? Or perhaps she assumed that everyone here tonight already knew their intimate relationship, and no one really cared. Hypocrisy was a vice Daisy had never practiced. Equally, discretion was a virtue she exercised selectively. Unquestionably she was beautiful and had a certain air of elegance about her that was worthy of admiration.

Vespasia had never desired to be a royal mistress. She thought the perils far outweighed any advantages, let alone pleasures. And in this instance she neither liked nor disliked the Prince of Wales, but she did rather like the Princess, poor woman. She was deaf, and imprisoned in a world of her own, but still she had to be aware of her husband’s self-indulgences.

A far greater tragedy, which she shared with perhaps fewer other women, but still far too many, was the death of her eldest son earlier this year. The Duke of Clarence, like his mother, had also been severely afflicted with deafness. It had been a peculiar bond between them, drawing them closer in their almost silent world. She grieved alone.

A dozen feet from Vespasia, the Prince of Wales was laughing heartily at something told to him by a tall man with a strong, slightly crooked nose. It was a powerful face, intelligent and impatient, although at the moment its expression was alive with humor. Vespasia had not met this man but she knew who he was: Charles Voisey, an appeals court judge, a man of profound learning, widely respected among his peers, if also a trifle feared.

The Prince of Wales saw her and his face lit with pleasure. She was a generation older than he, but beauty had always charmed him, and he remembered her most ravishing years when he himself had been young and full of hope. Now he was tired of waiting, of responsibility without the respect and the reward of being monarch. He excused himself from Voisey and moved towards her.

“Lady Vespasia,” he said with undisguised pleasure. “I am so pleased you were able to come. The evening would have lacked a certain quality without you.”

She met his eyes for a moment before dropping a slight curtsy. She could still make it seem a gesture of infinite grace, her back ramrod straight, her balance perfect.

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness. It is a splendid occasion.” It flickered through her mind just how splendid it was, like so many others these days, extravagant, so much food, the best wine, servants everywhere, music, chandeliers blazing with light, hundreds of fresh flowers. Nothing that could be imagined to add to the glamour was missing, nothing stinted.

There had been so many occasions in the past when there had been more laughter, more joy, and at a fraction of the cost. She remembered them with nostalgia.

But the Prince of Wales lived well beyond his means, and had done so for years. No one was surprised anymore at his huge house parties, shooting weekends, days at the races where fortunes were gambled, made and lost, at his gargantuan dinners or overgenerous gifts to favorites of one sort or another. Many no longer even commented on it.

“Do you know Charles Voisey?” he enquired. Voisey was at his elbow, courtesy demanded it. “Voisey, Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. We have known each other longer than either of us cares to remember. We should telescope it all together.” He gestured with his hands. “Take out all the tedious bits between and keep only the laughter and the music, the good dinners, the conversations, and perhaps a little dancing. Then we should be about the right age, shouldn’t we?”

She smiled. “That is the best suggestion I have heard in years, sir,” she said with enthusiasm. “I don’t even mind keeping some of the tragedy, or even the quarrels-let us simply get rid of all the tedious hours, the exchanging of phrases that neither of us means, the standing around, the polite lies. That would take years away.”

“You are right! You are right!” he agreed, conviction in his face. “I did not realize until this moment how much I had missed you. I refuse to allow it to happen again. I spend years of my life in duty. I swear I am not convinced that those I spend it with are any better pleased with it than I am! We make utterly predictable remarks, wait for the other to reply, and then move on to the next equally predictable response.”

“I fear it is part of royal duty, sir,” Voisey put in, “as long as we have a throne and a monarch upon it. I can think of no way in which it could be changed.”

“Voisey is a judge of appeal,” the Prince told Vespasia. “Which I suppose makes him a great man for precedent. If it has not been done before, then we had better not do it now.”

“On the contrary,” Voisey retorted. “I am all for new ideas, if they are good ones. To fail to progress is to die.”

Vespasia looked at him with interest. It was an unusual point of view from one whose profession was so steeped in the past.

He did not smile back at her, as a less confident man might have done.

The Prince was already thinking of something else. His admiration for other people’s ideas seemed highly limited.

“Of course,” he dismissed airily. “The number of new inventions around is incredible. Ten years ago we would not have conceived what they could do with electricity.”

Voisey smiled very slightly, his eyes on Vespasia’s for an instant longer before he replied. “Indeed, sir. One wonders what may yet be to come.” He was polite, but Vespasia heard the faintest thread of contempt in his voice. He was a man of ideas, broad concepts, revolutions of the mind. Details did not hold his regard; they were for smaller men, men whose view was conceived from a lower level.

They were joined by a noted architect and his wife, and the conversation became general. The Prince glanced at Vespasia with regret, a shred of humor, and then played his part in the trivialities.

Vespasia was able to excuse herself and moved on to speak to a politician she had known for years. He looked weary and amused, his face deeply lined, full of character. They had shared personal crusades in the past, triumph and tragedy, and a fair share of farce.

“Good evening, Somerset,” she said with genuine pleasure. She had forgotten how fond of him she had been. His failures had been magnificent, as had his successes, and he had carried them both with grace.