The Blood Royal

‘You won’t be the grandest guest there, sir,’ said William. ‘Not by a long chalk! Tell him, Mama!’

‘Shh! Don’t brag, William. Anyway, it was a charming gesture. The king and queen have made it understood that if we were to send them an invitation they would be pleased to attend the ceremony.’

‘The king and queen?’

‘Yes. And such of their offspring as are staying with them. It’s only just down the road from them after all … a mile or two.’

‘Cassandra, where exactly are you pla

‘I’ve just told you, Joe. Weren’t you listening? At St Mary’s, Upper Dedham. Had you forgotten that Oliver was, like his hero Nelson, a Norfolk man? And – isn’t it surprising how these things turn out? – the royal family has gathered together for the next few weeks in Sandringham. Not their usual a

‘Surprising, indeed,’ said Joe. ‘But – convenient? Not so sure about that.’ He caught the flare of alarm in Wentworth’s eyes and began to get to his feet.

Chapter Thirty-Two

He clamped Lily’s arm under his and set off at a fast lick up the boulevard towards the taxi rank in Grosvenor Place. The scene he’d just witnessed had disturbed him and he wondered how much of the undercurrent had been picked up by the sharp young woman trotting at his side. He decided to find out. He’d come at it crabwise.

‘Well, what did you make of Cousin Seb, then?’

‘A dangerous man, sir.’

‘Really? In what way?’

‘In the way a sixteen-point stag is dangerous to any rival. He’s marking out his territory, bellowing about the place and making sure of his hind.’

‘Great heavens! You make that genteel drawing room sound like a Scottish moor in the rutting season.’

‘A good analogy, sir. And if I were you, I’d pause for a moment to count up my own points. Because it’s your eye he’s pla

So it was out in the open. She’d seen that much at least.

Joe stopped and turned her to face him. ‘I’m not sure I understand your implications,’ he began, ‘but I am quite certain I don’t like the sound of them. The chap’s no more romantically interested in Cassandra than am I. If that’s what you’re suggesting. Good Lord! Attractive woman, of course, and not short of a bob or two, but the man’s totally unsuitable. A good five years younger than she is for a start. No money to speak of. And somewhat of an assertive character. Men with a high kill rate in their fighting years rarely settle down to peaceful domesticity, you know. No – too much of a daredevil for comfort.’

‘Exactly, sir. A modern man. A nice change for Cassandra. You forgot to add good looking – if you can accept the Ramon Novarro moustache. But with those heart-melting hazel eyes who’s going to quibble about a ’tache? He’s a bit bashed about but he’s energetic, and I’d say exciting. I bet he’s got the tickets for Venice booked already. Yes, Venice … that’s where he’d take her. Lucky woman. I envy her.’

‘Good Lord!’ Joe said again faintly. ‘Perhaps you should register an interest? Join the hinds? But – seriously – ought I to warn Cassandra of her danger?’

‘I’m sure that’s not necessary. She knows what’s what. And the boys seem very happy with the new arrangements. I’d put quite some store by that. William’s a romantic but John is surprisingly mature for his years. He’s made his calculations and read the small print in the will, I’ll bet. The only point on which the boys are confused is what they perceive to be their mother’s warm attentions to you, sir.’

Joe started to walk on. ‘None of your business, Wentworth, but since you brazenly choose to air it, I’ll tell you – she’s a demonstrative woman who’s been married for donkey’s years to a chap who was mostly absent and when present was not the best at expressing emotion. When a sensitive and concerned fellow – that’s me – shows a little regard she responds with a shade too much warmth, perhaps. Stop sneering! I think I have enough experience of life to know the difference between genuine affection and a show of it.’

He left a pause to allow her to absorb the suggestion of his worldliness, angry with himself that he had even embarked on self-justification.

‘All that hand-clasping, sir?’

‘Yes, that. And the slightly calculated and over-long embraces … the pretence of intimate knowledge …’ Joe shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, I prefer chocolate cake … No, all a sham … I regret to say,’ he added, to be tormenting.

‘Have you asked yourself why she would bother, sir?’

‘Can’t say I’ve given it much thought with all the other things screaming for my attention. Assassination trumps a languishing look any day.’ He sighed and gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘And, at all events, you can put all this Milady’s Boudoir nonsense out of your head – we have more serious matters to mull over. Cassandra’s news was a bit of a facer, don’t you think?’

‘Glory be, yes! Norfolk! A selection of the royal family gathered together under one doubtless rickety church roof.’

‘And, before you ask – I had no idea. If our Morrigan gets to hear of this – and on the rambling grapevine that is English society, she’s probably had word already – she’ll be forging her invitation, hiding herself behind the arras or pla

‘Morrigan! Entertaining load of cobblers you were dishing out for the Dedhams! The cabby ruled her out? Oh, yes? And have you investigated a co

‘Mountfitchet? He’s not as white as the driven snow. Bacchus managed to gain access to the gentleman in one of his more wakeful moments. Kicked out of his regiment for naughtiness of various kinds. But he hasn’t two working brain cells to rub together, nor a political bone in his body, which is English to the core. No Irish co

Taxis seemed to be few and far between on a Sunday afternoon. And, a

She was six steps down the road by the time he called after her. ‘I know what you’re up to, constable! Stay clear of the hazel eyes – and the antlers!’

The taxi was turning in to Victoria Street when he began to curse himself for all kinds of a fool. He’d seen her hang her battered old satchel on the hatstand in his office before they left. Too shabby to take out to tea in Mayfair?

‘Cabby! Back to Melton Square! Fast!’

Lily walked past the Dedhams’ house and went to tug on the door bell of the residence of Mr Ingleby Mountfitchet.

She didn’t much like the look of the manservant who answered. Untidy, unwashed she suspected, and displaying all the cold cu

‘Don’t be daft,’ was the rude response. ‘He’s said nothing to me. It’s six o’clock on a Sunday. He’s in his room. Recovering. And he’s not asked for one of your kind as far as I know. You’ve got the wrong day. It’s Fridays he’s frisky.’ He began to swing the door shut.