‘Gracious, Albert! I’m only having dinner with my boss.’
Too late, she realized this information would do nothing to allay the fears of the muscled Puritan by her side.
‘Boss, miss? Dinner, miss?’
‘It’s not social, Albert … It’s more in the nature of an interview. I think he wants to establish that I know how to hold my cutlery correctly.’ She fell silent, realizing that she was failing to persuade Albert that the commander was not an evil exploiter.
‘Got it. In that case, I’ll hang about and wait till you come out and then I’ll follow you to the Café Royal or whatever den of iniquity these interviews get done in these days,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t want to risk a scene and go upsetting Miss Phyllis.’
Albert lived to please Auntie Phyl and Lily understood his anxiety. ‘She wouldn’t expect you to go so far, Albert. Better do just as she told you and no more. Anyway, I shall be out late — past midnight, I’d say.’ With a sudden rush of affection for the obdurate old thug, she turned to him and landed a kiss on his scarred cheek before he was aware the assault was coming. ‘Don’t fret about me, Albert. I’ll remember what you told me to do if he turns nasty — eyes, knees and bumps a daisy!’ She mimed vicious stabs on three sensitive parts of the male anatomy. ‘And I’ve got my running shoes on.’
The same young constable was loitering in the vestibule. ‘Allow me to conduct you upstairs, miss,’ he said, oozing affability. ‘It’s quite a warren in here and, the commander being on the third floor and you in your finery, I thought you might like me to show you to the lift.’
He spent the awkward few moments in the lift pushing buttons and trying to stare at her under his lashes. Luckily this was an officer she had never met before so she stared confidently back at him. ‘Charming weather we’re having, don’t you think, constable?’ she said, enunciating clearly.
‘Yes, indeed, madam. Very charming.’
From ‘miss’ to ‘madam’ in two sentences. Lily smiled. This was going well. As she stepped out of the lift, she slipped back her cahsmere wrap and allowed it to twine negligently down one arm as Phyl had told her. (‘Knock him for six, duck. You’ve got the shoulders for it.’)
The constable led her along the corridor and tapped on the commander’s door. Responding to a bellow from inside, he opened the door and announced: ‘Miss Harry for you, sir.’ Greatly daring, he followed added: ‘I hope you have a very pleasant evening, sir.’
‘Thank you, constable. I’m sure I shall.’
The exchange of male shibboleths was undetectable. The men were too professional to allow a knowing smile or a raised eyebrow to give them away.
She’d arrived exactly on time. Joe was busy with a cigar at an open window, discreetly puffing smoke out in the direction of Horse Guards. Gaze on the middle distance, tails, white tie, severely simple shirt and waistcoat, he caught himself posing and came forward to welcome his guest, then stood and stared at her in astonishment.
He realized he’d been silent for longer than was polite. ‘Great heavens, Wentworth! Look at you. Anyone would think you’d just stepped out of a Fabergé Easter egg!’
‘Drat! I knew I should have worn the gymslip!’ he could have sworn she mumbled.
‘No, you misunderstand! Oh, please don’t droop! Shoulders back, chin up, constable! I meant it as a compliment. You look like something designed by the world’s best jeweller. Sleek, precious, unique. A knockout! And that greenery-yallery colour is very … very …’
‘Fresh and fashionable, sir?’
‘Exactly! I couldn’t have specified anything better if it had occurred to me to do so.’ He fiddled about, extinguishing the cigar he’d just lit and frowning. ‘Not in the habit of advising on female attire, unless it happens to be uniform which I’d consider within my province. Forgive me! In fact, I think you look just perfect. But how on earth could you get it so right? Did you know that …’ He gave her a searching look. ‘There’s no way you could possibly …’
‘Know? I know nothing yet! Are you ever going to tell me what exactly you want me to do this evening, sir? I’m really not at my best being run in blinkers.’
‘Of course. Impossible to speak earlier for very good reason. Orders! But now I think I can come clean. That’s why I asked you to get here early. And the first thing — you must call me Joe for the duration of the duty … when we are in company, of course.’
‘I’ll try to remember that, Commander.’
The telephone on the desk rang and he made a dive for it, realizing he was glad of the diversion. ‘No. I went home half an hour ago. You should do the same, Ned. Bring this to me on Monday.’ It rang again the moment he replaced the receiver. ‘Yes, but I’m engaged. Well, that’s a nuisance but it will have to wait until next week.’
He turned back to the Lily. ‘Look — as long as I’m here in my office, people will try to get hold of me.’ He unhooked the receiver from its stand and put it on the desk. ‘That’ll do for a start. But we’ll find somewhere else for your briefing. Somewhere discreet … What about the cocktail lounge in Claridges? They have a useful little alcove or two there … potted plants … That suit you?’
Lily nodded.
‘Good. Good. But before we leave — one little thing. Sit down, will you?’
Joe opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a document. Two or three sheets were paper-clipped together. He passed them across to her along with his fountain pen, uncapped and ready. Always an uncomfortable moment. You could never tell how people would react to this ceremony. ‘I’d like you to sign at the bottom on the dotted line.’
She put the pen down and began to read.
He interrupted. ‘Move it along, Wentworth! It’s just a formality. What you have there is a copy of the Official Secrets Act. By signing, you’re simply promising to reveal no state secrets … cross your heart and hope to die and all that. Breathe a word of what transpires tonight and I’ll stick you in the Tower.’ He feared his dismissive grin was not reassuring. She ignored him and read on.
‘Commander, this is unnecessary,’ she announced at last. ‘I’m an Englishwoman. My father is a war veteran. My grandfather was wounded in South Africa, fighting in a cavalry regiment for his country. My word — which I’ll readily give — should be good enough for anyone. I see no reason to sign such a document. It’s pointless anyway. Don’t you think I’d be hurrying to sign with an innocent smile and a contemptuous flourish if I were an anarchist … or a Communist … or a Fenian?’
The three words were delivered slowly. Joe guessed she was testing his reaction to one of these current bugbears of law and order. He recognized a game he’d played himself.
‘Instead of which you’re digging your heels in, fussing about details and threatening to ruin what could be a perfectly good evening. Champagne, caviar and Cecil Cardew’s band complete with crooner are all on the menu. To say nothing of the company of the most eligible bachelor in London.’ He allowed time for that to sink in. ‘Are you sure you want to sacrifice that spectacular dress for a technicality?’
After a moment he reached over, took up the sheets and put them away in a drawer, sighing. ‘Very well. We’ll just have to take for granted your loyalty to the State. It makes not a scrap of difference. Step out of line, Miss Wentworth, and someone … someone with more clout and bigger boots than mine … will settle your account.’
She didn’t seem to mind. ‘Now that sounds entirely reasonable to me. I’ll agree to that,’ she said. ‘And, in return, you have my word that I’ll do and say nothing that could — as far as I understand it — endanger the state. But tell me more about this bachelor. Not, I’m assuming, yourself?’
‘You assume correctly — if discourteously. If a list of such things were kept, I believe I’d feature at about number five hundred. And sinking weekly. The gossipmongers have rarely found me of interest and now I’m pleased to say they appear to have given up on me. The last time the hounds of the press noticed me I was bille
d as “back from India still a bachelor Sandilands”. And we all know what that means. It’s a degree worse than last season’s “confirmed bachelor”. It sends a clear message to mothers of marriageable daughters. “This one’s survived the Colonial Fishing Fleet — he’s clearly a hopeless case!” Not that many would welcome a policeman into the branches of their family tree. It’s not only the criminals that the words “Scotland Yard” send rushing for cover.’
He was chattering — still uncomfortable with his briefing task. He battled on. ‘No. You’re to look on me as no more than your escort — your chaperon for the evening — which, if all goes according to plan, you will spend in the close company of the aforementioned bachelor. Now — let me check — can you dance? Foxtrot? Quickstep? That sort of thing? Not a detail one finds mentioned in the files.’
‘Five years of Saturday mornings at the Stretton Academy of Tap Dance and Terpsichore. It didn’t seem relevant information for my application form. I dance adequately but I’m no Adele Astaire.’
‘Should be good enough. Now — your partner for the evening is an exceptionally good dancer. I’ve seen him performing. He’ll steer you around the floor all right. And his name’s David. He’ll expect you to call him David when you’re alone together.’
Lily’s voice was chill with suspicion. ‘I think I begin to see why you checked my height and weight. Should I be thankful that I chose to wear low-heeled shoes, sir?’ She stuck out her right foot for his inspection.
‘Ah! You’ve guessed.’ He made a show of examining her foot. ‘Not too high, not too low. Good choice. Calfskin, would they be?’ This was bluff and bluster, but Joe couldn’t help indulging in it to cover his unease. She waited for him to get to the point. ‘Well, don’t try running off in them before midnight, will you?’ His tone was playfully apologetic. He even wagged a finger. ‘Your partner is full of youth and vigour and keeps late hours. You’re to stay locked in a tango with him for as long into the night as he wishes.’
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 u
p 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.’
‘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?’
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