‘Then you had to assume it would be the POW. Our flamboyant, sociable, risk-taking prince. Oh, yes. Prime target. And an easy one. What a coup his death would be! Everybody loves him to bits. It would kick the English right where it hurts. But a woman involved? I’m wondering how reliable your information is …’ He faltered under Joe’s sudden hard stare. ‘Just a passing thought … And Irish, you say? No. Any flame-haired beauty approaching the prince with a gleam in her eye and a Beretta in her pocket will fall under suspicion and the weight of a pack of hearty Branch men before she gets within range of him. And had it occurred to anyone that, though the Irish and the Russians between them occupy a lot of space in London town, it’s not the same space? Class, wealth, culture, political ambitions – they have no meeting point. They don’t know each other. You’re barmy! There’s going to be no Kathleen O’Shea at this party!’

‘Another man with a misconception about the Irish. Who said anything about flame-coloured hair?’ said Sandilands. ‘She’s dark. And she doesn’t have an Irish accent. It’s pure Mayfair.’

In the crossfire of two astonished stares, he smiled sheepishly and added: ‘I’ve seen her eyebrows. And heard her speak.’

He stopped the car short of the hotel and handed Tate a note and signature scrawled on an invitation card. ‘Show this at the door and they’ll let you in. A moment!’ he added, catching Cyril by the shoulder as he prepared to get out. ‘Any last-minute advice for Miss Wentworth? You’ve been trailing our subject for years and must have observed him closely. How should she play her hand? She’ll be with him for the whole evening. It might not be easy for her.’

Cyril cut him short with a freezing glance and turned his gaze to Lily. ‘He’ll be delighted, love. Any man would. Any red- or blue-blooded man, would. I’d say be confident, be direct and keep it light. He’s very informal with women. Likes to chatter and laugh, bursts into song on occasions – he knows all the latest tunes.’ Cyril turned back to Sandilands, struck by a sudden thought. ‘In fact Lily and the prince are two for a pair, you’ll find. I don’t suppose you had any idea when you set this up, Sandilands. He loves a story, whether he’s telling it or listening. He’s a good listener. The time will fly in his company, Lily. Oh – I’ll pass on something I’ve noticed … something that doesn’t seem to have been noted by those of less impure imagination than my own.’

Joe gave a warning gesture but Cyril grinned disarmingly and pressed on. ‘He seems to quite enjoy being bossed about. Now, any bloke trying that on will receive a right royal set-down and a flash of temper – he’s got one! – but he rather plays up to a pretty girl wagging a stern finger at him. Nursemaid with a cockney accent – now that might be the perfect combination to set the royal pulses racing.’

Lily sighed. ‘Another one of those? Thanks, Cyril. It’s not my style, but if all else fails I’m sure I can play Nanny Whacker.’

Joe grunted in disapproval at the lèse majesté he was hearing from this pair and thrust Cyril’s camera bag at him. ‘Watch out for the Georgian gorillas on the door. They’ll probably search you. They’ve got knuckles like billiard balls,’ he added.

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?’