‘Great heavens, girl! Hold the speech until I have a soap box fetched, will you? And possibly a set of manacles!’ Joe was trying to keep it light but he was aghast. She sat there, looking as innocent as a sugar mouse and uttering views hot enough and red enough to warrant putting her on a charge of subversion. ‘I’ve heard much the same nonsense voiced at Speaker’s Corner. Who’ve you been talking to? Who’s stuffed your head with such dangerous ideas? Are you admitting to Bolshevist sympathies? “Off with their heads!” – would that be your war cry?’

‘Certainly not. I was as horrified as anyone by the slaughter of the Russian imperial family.’

‘Though you do not regret the passing of the institution, evidently. I see. Well, I can only conclude that you must, on your own judgement, ground your musket, pick up your kit bag and take your leave,’ he said with finality. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet, the conversation over. ‘You have every right. And you have those rights because others in their thousands, your father and grandfather among them, doubtless right back to Agincourt were willing to sacrifice their lives to preserve them.’

‘Ouch!’ Lily said. ‘Steady on, sir! I’m not armoured against such sentiments. The taking of life – whoever is in possession of it – is an abhorrence to me. And if you’re saying my presence tonight might help to preserve a life – royal though it be – I shall do my bit. I’d do the same for any poor soul threatened by the murderous forces of anarchy or terrorism that are plaguing us. The Prince of Wales or the conductor on the Clapham omnibus – their lives carry the same weight with me. I just wanted you to be clear about that. Look – wasn’t there talk of a drink at Claridges? I think I shall be earning at least a stimulating glass of champagne before the evening gets under way.’

He wondered if he accepted her volte-face too quickly. ‘Excellent notion! Let’s stop fencing and turn our swords in the same direction, shall we?’ He offered his arm and she rose to her feet and placed a hand on it gracefully. ‘Only the best, I think, should be offered in the circumstances. Will a pre-war Bollinger suit?’

‘I think I might like that. But wait a moment, sir. I’ve just thought of something … someone, rather. If, as you say you fear, it’s a case of “hunt the woman”, there’s a man I know who might be of assistance.’ She took a small leather wallet from her bag and selected a calling card from it. ‘Can you ring the number you see on there and ask for this person? With a bit of luck he’ll be still at his desk. Unless he’s headed for Claridges already. And, believe me, with the particular task we have on our hands tonight, he’ll be more use to us than a squadron of secret servicemen. He owes me a favour sir. Rather a large one. Just mention my name. He’ll come.’

Joe held the card between finger and thumb with mock distaste. ‘Oh, him! He’d be there like a shot if invited. But what on earth do you imagine this scoundrel could add to the party? A man of his profession? Jackals! The whole lot of them are banned from the hotel. I remember giving the order myself.’

‘He has a very particular skill, sir. The man’s a walking Debrett. Duchesses invite him to their shindigs to enjoy his latest gossip. He knows everyone in society. If there’s someone at the dance tonight who ought not to be there … an infiltrator … a female infiltrator, as you say your information specifies … I can think of no one more likely to spot her. He knows all the usual royal dancing partners. He can list every girl whose waist the prince has ever squeezed in public since he left naval college.’

Joe followed her reasoning and saw the advantages at once. His eyes gleamed as he reached for the telephone. ‘Operator, get me an outside line, would you? It’s a Fleet Street number.’ He read it out and then handed the equipment to Lily. ‘Who’s he working for now, your chap? The Daily Dirt? The Fortnightly Filth?’

‘Hello. Is Cyril there? Good. Fetch him to the phone, will you? Tell him his woman policeman wants him and it’s urgent.’

Joe eyed her with amused speculation while they waited. ‘Been moonlighting, have we, Wentworth? Offering special police services to the gentlemen of the press? Sort of thing I’m supposed to be clamping down on.’

‘Don’t ask, sir. Reputations would suffer. Ah, there you are! Lily here. Lily Wentworth. Yes – too long! Now listen. I’m in a position to do you another favour. How’d you like to be given an exclusive invitation to attend, as a reporter, the Russian knees-up at Claridges tonight?’ Lily winced and held the earpiece an inch away until the surge of exclamations and questions receded.

Impatiently, Joe snatched the phone back. ‘Calm down, man! Cyril Tate? Is that who I’ve got? This is Miss Wentworth’s commanding officer and I’m the one who issues the invitations. Sandilands … I believe we’ve met …Yes, that Sandilands … Feeling’s mutual …Your name’s been mentioned. I have a proposal to put to you. Got the tools of your trade to hand, have you? Can you climb into an evening suit at a moment’s notice?’ In an aside to Lily: ‘He’s already dressed.

‘That’s convenient. Look, meet me and Miss Wentworth in the snug bar of the Red Lion. Yes, just by the Yard in Scotland Alley. Don’t make a fuss! In fifteen minutes.’

He put the phone down.

‘You can forget the champagne tête à tête in the Palm Court!’ He grinned. ‘If we’re to be a threesome with that toad it’ll be a swift half of shandy-gaff in the Red Lion.’

The newsman eased his way through the crowds to their table in the far corner of the pub, relieving ten minutes of stilted conversation punctuated by sips of warm beer. Sandilands had carried back a half-pint of ginger beer shandy for Lily and two pint tankards of pale ale. He’d downed half of one and left the other foaming gently on the far side of their table. Suddenly, the animated and clever face Joe remembered was there behind the glass and lifting it.

‘Cheers!’ Tate saluted Joe, drank thirstily and then turned his attention to Lily, staring and blinking. ‘Lily, my love! That is my lovely Lily? I ride to your rescue! Though how you could possibly expect me to abandon the delights of the Mayor of Clerkenwell’s war memorial dedication supper at the drop of a hat for your, er, entertainment I have no idea. How on earth do you come to be all dolled up and in the clutches of this villain?’

Time to deliver a set-down. Joe spoke frostily. ‘Not sure whom you think you are addressing. This young lady is one of my many Scottish cousins on my mother’s side. Miss Lily Wentworth. What’s more, I think she can be the Honourable Lily Wentworth,’ he embroidered. ‘Second daughter of Viscount Wentworth of Moidart. If anyone asks, that’s the information you can pass on. You can add, confidingly, that she’s a friend and neighbour of Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon who seems to be all the go at the moment. That’s pedigree enough. No one can ever work out the Scottish peerage – some aren’t even aware that there is one – and a mixture of Scots and English geography will surely send the hounds the wrong way. I’ll give a reward to any keen cove who can find Moidart on the map!’

He noted that Tate followed every step of his intervention, nodding his understanding and, it seemed, approval.

‘How very fashionable!’ Cyril said. ‘Another Scottish girl spreading her wings south of the border? I see your compatriot Lady Elizabeth – ninth offspring of the Earl of Strathmore – is cutting a swathe through the English aristocracy. Three times a bridesmaid this season – the on dit is that it can’t be long before she’s a bride … a right royal bride, some go so far as to speculate.’

‘Save that claptrap for your rags, Tate,’ Joe warned. And then, swinging into his role, ‘Now, my dear Lily, you may tell this fellow what he needs to know.’