At last he’d shown his hand.

‘They’re not calfskin, these shoes. They’re antelope. A creature known for its fleet-footedness in escaping from predatory animals,’ Lily said sweetly. And added, ‘Be they princes or their pimps. Proxenetism is not, it would seem, the exclusive preserve of the lower classes.’

Joe reeled back in his chair as though he’d received a slap in the face. He drew himself together and breathed in deeply. He got to his feet and began to prowl up and down behind her. ‘I can see I’ve gone about this the wrong way,’ he muttered. ‘I would never have approached a matter of such national importance under an umbrella of obscurity and subterfuge with a male colleague. It was thought – by those who know little of the modern female – that, if approached directly, you might run off squawking with indignation at what we had to propose and scupper the whole thing. Under strict orders to reveal nothing until the very last moment. Had to find out what you were made of before I could entrust you with the knowledge. It’s not something a woman can just walk away from. Not used to employing females, you see. That’s it. Makes a difference.’

She swivelled round to look at him directly. ‘No, sir. You’re deceiving yourself. You’re not accustomed to dealing with females of my class. Had your cousin Margery been able to tango convincingly and been chosen for this assignment you’d have been easy and forthcoming in your briefing. She’d have been consulted, her opinion sought. I also would be intrigued to hear what you have in mind for me, having gone to quite a lot of bother to prepare myself for it. But I reserve the right to refuse.’ She sighed in exasperation. ‘Oh, sir! You make me sound off like Goody Two Shoes. I wish you’d just pretend I’m one of your sergeants and set out the proposal in a no-nonsense military manner. It’s a style I’m used to.’

This was an invitation Joe couldn’t resist and it sounded very like a capitulation. The game might still be on. He broke into a grin. ‘Can’t say I’m accustomed to shouting the order to go over the top to a princess all kitted out in gold bells and ribbons,’ he admitted. ‘But here goes. You want the full picture – here it is.’

He returned to his seat and began to brief her for the night’s work.

‘So there you are. It’s a duty, I think you’ll agree, that no patriotic Englishwoman can refuse. There is no greater service you can do for your country. And there is no one better placed than yourself to render this service. Indeed, there is no one else. If you refuse to play your part, no understudy will step forward. You were carefully chosen. But what we’re proposing is dangerous. Damned dangerous. The best I can say is – I’ll be there. I won’t take my eyes off you – I’ll be watching you every minute.’

‘How glad I shall be of that, sir.’

Sarcasm? He’d deserved it.

Sensing her response was feeble, she followed up by putting a sting in the tail. ‘And, if nothing else, there’ll be a reliable witness of the incident when my bullet-riddled body falls at the feet of the future king of England halfway through the last waltz.’

Chapter Eighteen

He let her talk on in the same vein, allowing her time to get the outrage out of her system.

‘Pity you didn’t outline your schemes earlier, sir – I could have got my seamstress to add a layer of body armour to the bodice perhaps. Plenty of room in there – as you noticed – for a layer or two of silk padding, after all. I can see the headlines in tomorrow’s Daily Mirror: “Mysterious maiden of the steppes lays down her life for young prince”. I must get together a few last words to deliver as I expire. Or have you already scripted them for me? I do hope Monsieur Diaghilev will be of the party tonight – he may be inspired to have it choreographed for the Ballets Russes.’

‘Trench humour is what I’m hearing, Wentworth.’ Joe spoke quietly. He understood. He’d have used much the same words himself in the circumstances. ‘And glad to be hearing it. It’s the fellows who make the most savage quips who come staggering back to base. And at last we’re talking the same language. I’ve no time for false heroics.’ He spread his capable hands and shook his head. ‘I know it’s a—’ he had been about to say ‘bugger’, she knew, and she smiled to hear him instantly censor the word and supply ‘tremendous nuisance, but Dame Duty calls and I’ve got tired of trying to shout the old bat down. Her clarion voice always breaks through. She called to you at Paddington. I saw you answer. I watched as you launched yourself at an armed miscreant without hesitation. Don’t try to confuse me, Wentworth – you’re as much in thrall to Duty as I am. And look at it this way: we’re all nothing but cogs in the machinery of State – the State we support and which supports us. Imagine Duty was speaking with the voice of your Boer War grandfather – what would you be hearing?’

A delve into her family history had turned up nothing embarrassing. On the contrary – two or three generations of soldiers, all laden with medals, duty never shirked, had featured in their research.

Lily answered his challenge at once: ‘“It’s a bugger, lass, but pick up thee musket and soldier on!” is what I’d hear from him. “Stand tall and hold the line!” he might have added. But Grandfather lived in a different world. My father no longer accepted such unthinking maxims. He did his duty – as I expect you’ve discovered. He went over the top when the whistle blew. But his mind and his heart were not what were moving him through the battlefield. His two driving forces were loyalty to his fellow soldiers and the threat of execution for desertion had he obeyed his instincts.’

‘An instinct for desertion?’ Joe said faintly, trying not to sound as disturbed as he felt.

‘Yes. He was not alone. Like many of his fellows, he emerged from the war a pacifist and a – so far undeclared – socialist. An anti-monarchist, what’s more, who passed on his views to his daughter.’

‘Your father was a schoolmaster by trade, I understand. And he has spoken openly to you – a girl – of such matters?’

‘He had no son and has always declared himself glad of that. “No more sacrifices to be offered up to the god of war” is how he puts it. Like most survivors, he’s silent on his experiences but he conveys them through painting. And if a child approaches and asks questions about what she sees on the canvas, her father will answer and pass on his philosophy through the painted image. It was my father who taught me to use my head and my judgement. To question automatic acceptances of patriotism. And loyalty to the crown.’

‘You’re telling me now that you have no allegiance to the royal family?’ Joe was seriously alarmed. He shot to his feet in his agitation and thrust an arm towards her. ‘Do you see this right arm, Wentworth? It served King and Country for four years and was jolly nearly shot off at Mons. If revolutionaries were rampaging through the palace I’d slide it through the door latch and they’d have to break my bones before the mob would gain entry to their majesties!’ Feeling suddenly foolish, he lowered his arm and sank into his seat again.

The girl was not overawed but at least she didn’t giggle, he thought. ‘I can admire the depth of your feeling, though I consider it badly targeted,’ she said. ‘I wonder whether your loyalty is inspired by the office itself or by the people who currently hold and enjoy it?’ A question he’d never asked himself. Into his wary silence she plunged on: ‘This family has shallow roots in our native soil, being more German than British. They are ordinary mortals who’ve been fed the notion from an early age that they have a divine right to rule and exploit. They don’t. I think the notion of kingship in any modern state is outdated and retrograde. It’s the anointed Napoleons, the kings, the Kaisers and the tsars who lead their people to destruction. In their millions. Six, at least, European monarchs have been killed by their own subjects this century – so far – and more dethroned. It seems I’m not alone in wishing for a continent free of autocratic rulers.’