And now the luck was theirs. With his early background of service in one of the grandest houses in the east of England and four war years’ experience at a rarefied level in the catering corps based in Paris, Honeysett offered them the best management in London. The bookings flooded in. London had taken off on an unstoppable wave of jubilation. Party followed party. The lights stayed on all night. ‘Brighten up London!’ the government had commanded and people leapt to obey. The vineyards of Champagne risked being drunk dry. And there must surely be a limit to the amount of roe you could squeeze from a sturgeon?

Honeysett eyed the gleaming silver tureens filled with caviar. All colours. From the ends of the earth. And obtained at vast expense. It had cost a hundred quid just to fill a small bowl with that special red stuff the princess had demanded. His lip curled at his memory of tasting it when it arrived on the refrigerated truck the day before. He wouldn’t offer it to his dog. Honeysett tasted everything in his quest for perfection. But he’d had to call in a second opinion on this one. Young Anna had been working for him for over a month now and had settled well. She claimed to be Russian and claimed to know her caviar when he asked. About 25 per cent of his staff were Russian. And they had a fast turnover. But this girl was different from the usual run of untrained chancers. Her references had been unimpeachable. And she knew her table placements seemingly by instinct. Most girls took a week to learn. And, above all, she was obliging. Didn’t object to working extra hours. Perfect English with just a trace of an accent – Scottish, he could have sworn. Was always at his elbow with a whispered suggestion or a sweetly termed correction.

She reminded him of himself at the same age, he thought, and decided she’d bear watching.

When consulted, she’d dipped the tip of a teaspoon into the red slime, delicately licked it with her cat’s tongue and closed those big dark eyes of hers. Silence followed. Honeysett was convinced his judgement was right and she was going to be sick until she sighed, opened her eyes again and, to his dismay, burst into tears. Lucky his handkerchief had been clean and crisp. Through the sniffling and gulping he’d managed to learn that the caviar was not only not off – it was wonderful. Supreme. A heavenly taste she’d not experienced for five years. He’d helped her get over her outburst of nostalgia, muttering: ‘There, there!’ and ‘Brace up now, dear.’ Emotional lot, these Russians. But five minutes later Anna was polishing the glasses and humming a jazzy tune under her breath, fully recovered from her emotional storm. He appreciated a woman who didn’t make an undue fuss. And his handkerchief had been returned this morning washed and ironed.

He’d promoted Anna to joint head of the serving squad for tonight’s shindig. Young Antonio, from Italy, would keep an eye on her. This high-stepping matched pair pleased him: Antonio and Anna, handsome and dark and just deferential enough. There they stood, uniform perfect, starched cuffs impeccable, napkin over left arm, at the ready. They’d been told to expect the guest of honour and his partner first in line and to take their time serving up their choice of dishes. After all, the glamour of the presentation was part of the entertainment. The guests should be allowed to feast their eyes on the shining display rising up in artistically arranged ranks on stepped buffets before choosing. Antonio and Anna would place samples of the dishes requested on china plates with a gold rim and heraldic double-headed eagle in the centre.

Some dishes were nestling in wreaths of crushed ice, others were being kept hot in chafing dishes – it seemed to Honeysett a strange and uncomfortable way of serving food and went against all his training and experience but that was what, increasingly, this informal world demanded. Experimentation. Novelty. And Honeysett was nothing if not supple. He rather liked to think that, in the most discreet way, he identified the trends and set the style. And young Anna had come up with some intriguing ideas. She was the right generation, after all. Buffet luncheons, short skirts, fast cars, picture houses – she was becoming a bridge between his Edwardian world and her modern one. He must find a way of retaining her services. By some means or other.

The doors rolled back and the crowd gasped. Several broke with tradition and sacrificed their dignity sufficiently to join the prince in a congratulatory clap of the hands at the sight of the buffet.

The prince leaned over and whispered to Lily, ‘Did I say picnic? No. Ali Baba’s feast, that’s what we’ve got. What fun! Let’s go in, shall we, and inspect it more closely? I don’t know whether we’re expected to eat it or paint it. Tell you what, where’s that photographer chappie? We’ll get him to record it for posterity … Ah, there he is!’

A murmured word sent Cyril into the dining room where his flash devices were soon adding highlights to the aspic-gleaming mosaic. As he retreated, he managed to speak briefly to Lily. ‘All’s well. No dark horses in this paddock. Or nameless strawberry roans. More than halfway through the evening, chuck. I’ll stay close.’

The prince was still showing a flattering appreciation of the display and shooting a knowledgeable comment or two to the chief steward, who had remained in attendance to collect the compliments. In his easy way, the prince questioned the appearance of oysters in the line-up. Was this an oyster month? Was September quite safe? He seemed satisfied by the answer, which involved a eulogy to the vigorous Whitstable production. He showed a gratifying appreciation of the variety and quantity of caviar. The steward, with a confidential air, recommended that His Royal Highness try the … he tactfully suppressed the word ‘red’ and substituted ‘garnet-coloured variety’.

As they made their way towards the two servers, Edward grinned and treated Lily to a line or two from a West End show, the extravagant gastronomic celebration ‘Here Be Oysters Stewed in Honey’ from Chu Chin Chow. His grin widened when Lily joined in, supplying the next two lines of culinary oddities.

A dark-haired steward stepped forward, plate and napkin in hand, to guide Lily’s choice. A matching pretty girl offered the same service to the prince. Italians? Lily thought so.

‘Oh, Lily, how to choose. Shall we start with fishy things? Caviar? Oysters? Oh, I spot some salmon up there. Mademoiselle, I’ll have the salmon. And some soured cream and watercress sauce if you have it.’

The girl smiled and raised the plate she was holding ready for him. She fixed the prince with what Lily, in her state of alertness, recognized as a conspiratorial look and, with a flourish, wiped her napkin across it. A gesture that clearly said, ‘Clean plate, no problems.’ One of Sandilands’ team? How many women did he have on his books? The girl seemed to have the advantage of Lily, apparently knowing exactly who or what she was – there was no mistaking the swift complicitous smile she directed at her. In a gently accented voice she persuaded the prince to sample one or two more of the dishes … ‘almond-studded fricasseed tails of Persian lamb … shellfish tossed with spices …’

With smiling good manners, the prince watched as his simple choice of salmon was shouldered aside by piles of highly seasoned exotica. Lily turned to the male server. ‘That looks utterly delicious! I’ll have exactly the same dishes, please, if you can remember them.’

‘But of course, mademoiselle.’ Up came the plate and the ladles worked, scooping and spooning, producing a replica of the prince’s plate. They followed a footman to a corner table laid for eight and the prince indicated that Lily should sit by his side. They settled to wait for friends of the prince to emerge with their plates from the throng now steadily making inroads into the display.