Cometh the Hour

22

When the money began to dry up, Virginia wondered if she could return to the same watering hole a second time.

Without informing her father, she had employed a new butler and housekeeper and returned to her old way of life. £14,000 might have seemed like a lot of money at the time, but that was before she checked her recent dress account, spent a month at the Excelsior Hotel in Tenerife with a totally unsuitable young man, made a foolish loan to Bofie that she knew he’d never repay and backed a string of fillies at Ascot that never had any intention of entering the winners’ enclosure. She had refused to place a bet on Noble Conquest for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes, and then watched her romp home at 3/1. Her owner, Cyrus T. Grant III, was inexplicably absent, so Her Majesty presented the cup to his trainer.

Virginia opened yet another letter from Mr. Fairbrother, a man she had sworn never to speak to again, and reluctantly accepted that she was facing the same temporary embarrassment as she’d experienced six months previously. Her father’s monthly allowance had put her bank balance temporarily back in the black, so she decided to invest a hundred pounds seeking the advice of Sir Edward Makepeace QC. After all, it wasn’t his fault she’d lost her libel case against Emma Clifton. Alex Fisher was to blame for that.

“Let me try to understand what you’re telling me,” said Sir Edward after Virginia had come to the end of her story. “You met a Mr. Cyrus T. Grant III, a Louisiana businessman, at a lunch party at Harry’s Bar in Mayfair hosted by the son of Lord Bridgwater. You then accompanied Mr. Grant back to his hotel—” Sir Edward checked his notes — “the Ritz, where you had tea in his private suite, and later both of you drank a little too much... presumably not tea?”

“Whisky,” said Virginia. “Maker’s Mark, his favorite brand.”

“And you ended up spending the night together.”

“Cyrus can be very persuasive.”

“And you say that he proposed to you that evening, and when you returned to the Ritz the following morning he had, to quote you, ‘done a runner.’ By which you mean he had settled his account with the Ritz and taken the first flight back to America.”

“That is exactly what he did.”

“And you are seeking my legal opinion as to whether you have a claim for breach of promise against Mr. Grant that would stand up in a court of law?” Virginia looked hopeful. “If so, I have to ask, do you have any proof that Mr. Grant actually proposed to you?”

“Such as?”

“A witness, someone he told or, even better, an engagement ring?”

“We had planned to go shopping for a ring that morning.”

“I apologize for this indelicacy, Lady Virginia, but are you pregnant?”

“Certainly not,” said Virginia firmly. She paused for a moment, before adding, “Why? Would it make any difference?”

“A considerable difference. Not only would we have proof of your liaison but, more importantly, you could seek a maintenance order, claiming that Mr. Grant had an obligation to bring up the child in a style and manner commensurate with his considerable wealth.” He looked at his notes again, “As the twenty-eighth richest man in America.”

“As reported in Forbes magazine,” confirmed Virginia.

“That would have been good enough for most courts of law in both countries. However, as you are not pregnant, and have no proof that he proposed to you other than your word against his, I cannot see any course of action open to you. I would therefore advise you not to consider suing Mr. Grant. The legal expense alone could prove crippling and, after your recent experience, I suspect that isn’t a road you’d want to travel down a second time.”

Her hour was up, but Virginia considered it £100 well spent.

“And when is the baby due, Morton?” asked Virginia.

“In about two months, my lady.”

“Do you still plan to have it adopted?”

“Yes, my lady. Although I’ve found a new position in a good household, while Mrs. Morton is unable to work we simply can’t afford the expense of another child.”

“I sympathize with you,” said Virginia, “and am keen to help if I can.”

“That’s very kind of you, my lady.”

Morton remained standing while Virginia outlined, in some detail, a proposition that she hoped might solve her problem as well as his. “Would that be of any interest to you?” she asked finally.

“It certainly would, my lady, and if I may say so, it is most generous.”

“How do you think Mrs. Morton will react to such a proposal?”

“I’m sure she’ll fall in with my wishes.”

“Good. However, I must stress that should you and Mrs. Morton accept my offer, neither of you would be able to have any contact with the child again.”

“I understand.”

“Then I will have the necessary documents drawn up by my lawyer and engrossed ready for you both to sign. And be sure to keep me regularly informed about Mrs. Morton’s health, in particular when she plans to go into hospital.”

“Of course, my lady. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

Virginia stood up and shook hands with Morton, something she’d never done before.

Virginia had the Baton Rouge State-Times airmailed to her from Baton Rouge once a week. This allowed her to keep up with the “wedding of the year”. The latest edition devoted a whole page to the forthcoming marriage of Ellie May Campbell to Cyrus T. Grant III.

Invitations had already been sent out. The guests included the state governor, The Hon. Hayden Rankin, both US senators, several congressmen and the mayor of Baton Rouge, as well as most of the leading society figures in the state. The ceremony would be conducted by Bishop Langdon, in St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, and would be followed by a five-course banquet at the bride’s family ranch for the four hundred guests who were expected to attend.

“Four hundred and one,” said Virginia, although she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to lay her hands on an invitation. She turned next to page four of the State-Times, and read about the outcome of a divorce case she had been following with great interest.

Despite meticulous preparation, there were still one or two obstacles that Virginia needed to overcome before she could consider setting off for the New World. Bofie, who seemed to have contacts in both the Upper House and the lower classes, had already supplied her with the name of a struck-off doctor and a lawyer who had appeared more than once in front of the Bar Council’s Ethics Committee. Mellor Travel had organized her flights to and from Baton Rouge, and booked her into the Commonwealth Hotel for three nights. The hotel was sadly unable to offer her ladyship a suite as they had all been taken by guests attending the wedding. Virginia didn’t complain, as she had no wish to be the center of attention — well, only for a few minutes.

For the next month she prepared, double-checked and rehearsed everything that needed to be covered during her three days in Baton Rouge. Her final plan would have impressed General Eisenhower, although she only needed to defeat Cyrus T. Grant III. The week before she was due to fly to Louisiana, Virginia visited a branch of Mothercare in Oxford Street, where she purchased three outfits that she only ever intended to wear once. She paid in cash.

Lady Virginia Fenwick was picked up from her flat in Cadogan Gardens and driven to Heathrow in a private hire car arranged by Mellor Travel. When she checked in at the BOAC counter, she was told her flight to New York was running a few minutes late, but there would still be more than enough time to catch the connecting flight to Baton Rouge. She hoped so, because there was something she needed to do while she was at JFK.

A slim, smartly dressed, middle-aged woman stepped onto a plane bound for New York, while a heavily pregnant woman boarded the connecting flight to Baton Rouge.

On arrival in the capital of Louisiana, the pregnant woman took a taxi to the Commonwealth Hotel. As she stepped out of the back of the yellow cab, two porters rushed across to assist her. When she booked in, it wasn’t hard to tell, from the conversations all around her, that the hotel was packed with guests looking forward to the special occasion. She was shown up to a single room on the third floor and, as there was nothing more she could do that night, Virginia collapsed onto the bed exhausted and fell into a deep sleep.

When she woke at 4 a.m., 10 a.m. in Cadogan Gardens, she thought about the meeting she had arranged later that morning with a Mr. Trend, the man who would decide if her plan was realistic. She had phoned him a week earlier, and his assistant had called back to confirm her appointment with the senior partner. She hoped to have a little more success with her new lawyer than she had managed with Sir Edward.

Virginia took an early breakfast in her room and devoured that morning’s State-Times. The wedding of the year had advanced to the front page. However, she learned nothing that hadn’t already been reported several times during the past month, except that security at both the church and the bride’s family’s ranch would be vigilant. The local police chief assured the paper’s reporter that anyone who attempted to gatecrash the ceremony or the lunch would be ejected and end up spending the night in the city jail. Photographs of the bridesmaids and a copy of the lunch menu made a center-page spread — but would Virginia be there to witness the ceremony? After she’d read the article twice and poured herself a third cup of coffee, she became restless, although it was still only 7:20 a.m.

After breakfast she selected a maternity outfit that made her, with a little assistance, look about seven months pregnant. She left the hotel at 9:40 a.m. and took a taxi to Lafayette Street, where she entered a monument to glass and steel and, after checking the directory on the wall, took a lift to the twenty-first floor. She told the receptionist her name was Fenwick and she had an appointment with Mr. Trend. The young woman’s southern drawl made English sound like a foreign language to Virginia, but she was rescued by a voice from behind her.

“Welcome to Baton Rouge, ma’am. I do believe it’s me you’re looking for.”

Virginia turned around to see another man who evidently considered that a check jacket, jeans and a string tie inspired confidence. She would have explained to Mr. Trend that in England, only members of the royal family and police superintendents were addressed as ma’am, but she let it pass. They shook hands. “Come through to my office.”

Virginia followed him past a row of offices that seemed to be getting larger and larger with each stride he took. Finally, Trend opened a door at the end of the corridor and ushered her in.

“Have a seat,” he said as he took his place behind a large mahogany desk. The walls were covered with photographs of Mr. Trend and triumphant clients who couldn’t have looked more guilty. “Now you can imagine,” said Trend as he leaned forward, “how intrigued I was to receive a call from an English lady wanting to seek my advice, and also to find out how she’d ever come across my name in the first place.”

“It’s a long story, Mr. Trend,” which she proceeded to tell. Virginia explained to her prospective counsel how she’d met Cyrus T. Grant III on his brief visit to London. She did not mention the ring, but assured Mr. Trend that her present condition was the result of that liaison.

The lawyer began licking his lips. “Some questions, if I may, Lady Virginia,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “First, and most important, when is the baby due to pop out?”

Once again Virginia was reminded of Cyrus. “In about two months.”

“So I assume this liaison took place at the Ritz in London some seven months ago.”

“Almost to the day.”

“And may I ask you a delicate question?” he said, not waiting for her to reply. “Could anyone else be the father?”

“As I hadn’t slept with anyone for over a year before I met Cyrus, it seems unlikely.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, ma’am, but it’s the first question Mr. Grant’s attorney will ask.”

“And you have your answer.”

“That being the case, it appears we do indeed have a paternity claim against Mr. Grant. But I need to ask you another delicate question. Do you want this matter made public? Because if you do, you’d sure hit the front pages at the moment, considering who’s involved. Or would you prefer me to try to reach a private settlement?”

“I would much prefer a private settlement. The less my friends in London know about this whole affair the better.”

“That’s fine by me. In fact, we might even be able to get the best of both worlds.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Trend.”

“Well, if you were to attend the wedding—”

“But surely it won’t come as a surprise to you that I haven’t been invited. And I read only this morning that security will be extremely tight.”

“Not if you have an invitation.”

“Does that mean you’re going?”

“No, I was the lawyer who acted on behalf of Ellie May’s first husband, so you won’t see me there.”

“Which is the reason I chose you to represent me, Mr. Trend.”

“I’m flattered. But before I agree to take on your case, there’s another crucial matter we need to discuss. My fees, and how you intend to pay them. I charge one hundred dollars an hour, plus expenses, and I expect a down payment of ten thousand dollars on appointment.” Virginia realized their short meeting was about to be terminated. “There is an alternative,” continued Trend, “although I know it’s frowned upon on your side of the pond. It’s called the contingent fee option.”

“And how does that work?”

“I agree to take on your case and, if you win, I get twenty-five percent of the final settlement.”

“And if I lose?”

“I get nothing. But you don’t end up with a bill.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Good, then that’s settled. Now, my immediate problem is to make sure you get an invitation to the nuptials, and I think I know exactly who to call. Where can I contact you later today?”

“The Commonwealth Hotel, Mr. Trend.”

“Call me Buck.”

23

“Mrs. Kathy Frampton.”

“Who’s she?” asked Virginia.

“A distant cousin of Ellie May Campbell,” replied Trend.

“Then someone at the wedding is certain to know her.”

“Unlikely. Her invitation was returned from Seattle unopened, with ‘Not known at this address’ stamped across the envelope.”

“But surely someone who works for the wedding planners will know Mrs. Frampton didn’t reply to her invitation.”

“Yes, and that person just happens to be in charge of the guest list, and also the place settings for lunch at the ranch. And I can promise you, she won’t be telling anyone.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Virginia, sounding unconvinced.

“Let’s just say she was delighted with the divorce settlement I negotiated for her.”

Virginia smiled. “So how do I get hold of Mrs. Frampton’s invitation?”

“I slipped it under the door of your room an hour ago. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

Virginia dropped the phone, jumped out of bed, ran to the door and picked up a large cream envelope. She ripped it open, to find an invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Larry Campbell to the wedding of their only daughter, Ellie May Campbell, to Cyrus T. Grant III.

Virginia picked the phone back up. “I’ve got it.”

“Be sure to make it a memorable occasion for Cyrus,” said Trend. “I look forward to hearing all about it when we meet up again tomorrow morning.”

“Ellie May, will you take this man to be your...”

Virginia was seated in the eighth row of the congregation, among the cadet branch of the Campbell family. She had an excellent view of the nuptials, and had to give Ellie May some credit because Cyrus looked almost acceptable in morning dress, and may even have shed a few pounds. And from the look on his face, he clearly adored the about-to-be-pronounced Mrs. Grant. Although, in truth, even a devoted mother would have been hard pressed to describe the bride as anything other than plain, which gave Virginia some satisfaction.

Virginia had taken a seat as close to the aisle as possible, in the hope that Cyrus would spot her as he and his bride left the church. But at the last moment, a family of three rushed in and edged her toward the center of the pew. Despite her staring fixedly at the groom as the new Mr. and Mrs. Cyrus T. Grant proceeded down the aisle together, Cyrus appeared oblivious to anyone other than his bride and marched happily straight past her.

After Virginia had left the church, she checked the instructions neatly printed on the back of her invitation card. She was on coach B, which, along with seven other buses, countless limousines and even the odd car, stretched as far as the eye could see. She climbed on board and selected a seat near the back.

“Hello,” said an elegant white-haired old lady, offering a gloved hand as Virginia sat down next to her. “I’m Winifred Grant. Cyrus is my nephew.”

“Kathy Frampton,” said Virginia. “I’m a cousin of Ellie May.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” said Winifred as the bus moved off.

“No, I hail from Scotland, and I don’t get over to the States that often.”

“I see you’re expecting.”

“Yes, in a couple of months.”

“Are you hoping for a girl or a boy?”

Virginia hadn’t given a moment’s thought to any questions she might be asked about being pregnant. “Whatever the good Lord decides,” she said.

“How very sensible, my dear.”

“I thought the ceremony went rather well,” said Virginia, wanting to change the subject.

“I agree, but I do wish Cyrus had married Ellie May twenty years ago. It was what both families had always planned.”

“Then why didn’t he?”

“Cyrus was always shy. He didn’t even ask Ellie May to be his date for the school prom, so he lost out to Wayne Halliday. Wayne was the school’s star quarterback and, frankly, he could have had any girl he wanted, and probably did. But she let him sweep her off her feet and, let’s face it, it can’t have been her looks that first attracted him to Ellie May.”

“Where’s Wayne now?”

“I have no idea, but with the settlement he ended up with, he’s probably lounging on a South Sea island drinking piña coladas, surrounded by skimpily clad maidens.”

Virginia didn’t need to ask who Wayne Halliday’s lawyer was. She had followed the case in the State-Times with great interest and been impressed with the size of the settlement Mr. Trend had pulled off on behalf of his client.

The bus swung off the road and drove through a vast set of wrought-iron gates before proceeding down a long drive lined with tall pine trees that led to a massive colonial mansion surrounded by hundreds of acres of manicured lawns.

“What’s Cyrus’s ranch like?” asked Virginia.

“About the same size, I would guess,” said Winifred. “So he didn’t have to bother with a prenup. A marriage made not in heaven, but on the New York Stock Exchange,” she added with a smile.

The bus came to a halt outside a vast Palladian mansion. Virginia climbed off and joined the long line of guests who were having their invitations carefully checked. When she reached the front of the queue, she was handed a small white envelope by a woman who seemed to know exactly who she was.

“You’re on table six,” she whispered. “No one there for you to worry about.”

Virginia nodded and followed the other guests into the house. A row of white-jacketed waiters holding trays of champagne created a path all the way to the ballroom where a lunch for four hundred was waiting to be served. Virginia studied the layout of the room like a Grand National jockey considering which fences might bring him down.

A long table, clearly reserved for the family and their most important guests, ran down one side of the room. In front of it was a dance floor and, beyond that, forty circular tables filled the rest of the room. Virginia was still taking all this in when a gong sounded and a toastmaster dressed in a red tailcoat announced, “Please take your places so we can all welcome the family and their distinguished guests.”

Virginia went in search of table six, which she found on the edge of the dance floor, right in front of the top table. She introduced herself to the two middle-aged men seated on either side of her. It turned out that like her, they were cousins, but of the Grants, not the Campbells. Buck Trend clearly wasn’t taking any chances.

No sooner was everyone seated than they were on their feet again to applaud the bride and groom, who were accompanied by their parents, brothers and sisters, the best man, the bridesmaids and several distinguished guests.

“That’s our governor,” said the man on Virginia’s right, “Hayden Rankin. Mighty fine fellow, much admired by the folks of Louisiana.” But Virginia was more interested in the seating at the top table. Although she had a clear view of Cyrus, she doubted he would spot her on the other side of the dance floor. How was she going to attract his attention without it being too obvious?

“I’m a cousin of Ellie May,” she eventually replied as they sat back down. “And you?”

“My name’s Nathan Grant. I’m a cousin of Cyrus, so I guess we’re now kith and kin.” Virginia couldn’t think of a suitable response. “Is your husband with you?” Nathan asked politely.

Another question Virginia hadn’t anticipated. “No, I’m afraid he’s attending a business conference he couldn’t get out of, so I came with Great-aunt Winifred instead.” She waved, and Winifred returned the compliment.

“So what line of business is he in?” Virginia looked puzzled. “Your husband?”

“He’s an insurance broker.”

“And what’s his specialty?”

“Horses,” Virginia said, looking out of the window.

“How interesting. I’d like to meet him. Perhaps he could give me a better deal than the guy who’s currently robbing me.”

Virginia didn’t respond, but turned to the man sitting on her left. By switching her attention from one to the other at regular intervals, she avoided having to answer too many awkward questions. She received an occasional wave from Great-aunt Winifred, but Cyrus never once glanced in her direction. How was she going to make him aware she was there? And then the question was answered for her.

She was chatting to Nathan about her other child, her first-born, giving him a name — Rufus, aged eight — and even the school he was attending — Summerfields — when an attractive young woman from another table strolled past. Virginia noticed that several pairs of male eyes followed her progress. By the time she’d reached the other side of the dance floor, Virginia had worked out how to be sure that Cyrus couldn’t miss her. However, her timing needed to be perfect, because she didn’t want any rivals on the catwalk at the same time. Especially one who was younger and had longer legs.

After the third course had been cleared away, the toastmaster banged his gavel and silence prevailed once again. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Larry Campbell, the father of the bride.”

Mr. Campbell rose from his place at the center of the top table. He began by welcoming his guests on behalf of his wife and...

Virginia anticipated Mr. Campbell’s speech would last for about ten minutes. She needed to select the exact moment to make her move, because she knew she would only get one chance. While the father of the bride was welcoming Governor Rankin and the two US senators was clearly not that moment. She waited until Campbell began a long anecdote about some minor incident Ellie May had been involved in when she was at school. The punchline was greeted with far more laughter and applause than it deserved, and Virginia took advantage of the pause in his speech. Rising from her place and clutching her stomach, she walked slowly around the edge of the dance floor. She gave Mr. Campbell an apologetic glance before staring, but only for a moment, directly at Cyrus. He turned chalk white, before she turned her back on him and made her way toward an exit sign on the far side of the room. The look on Cyrus’s face suggested that Banquo’s ghost could not have made a more effective appearance.

Virginia knew her reentry needed to be just as powerful. She waited patiently in the wings for the best man’s speech to finish before the toastmaster finally called on the bridegroom, Cyrus T. Grant III, to reply on behalf of the guests. As Cyrus rose, everyone burst into applause, which was the moment Virginia chose to reenter the arena. She moved swiftly across the dance floor and back to her seat, trying to give the impression that she didn’t want to hold up the bridegroom’s speech. Cyrus was not a naturally gifted speaker at the best of times, and these weren’t the best of times. He stumbled through his text, repeating several lines and, when he finally sat down, he received only muted applause, along with a gracious smile from an uninvited guest.

Cyrus turned around and began talking animatedly to a security guard who was stationed behind the top table. The square-shouldered giant of a man nodded and beckoned to two of his colleagues. Virginia suddenly realized she didn’t have an exit strategy. When the band struck up, Nathan Grant rose gallantly from his place and was about to ask Kathy for the first dance, only to find she was already weaving her way nimbly between the tables toward the entrance.

When Virginia reached the far side of the room, she glanced around to see one of the security guards pointing at her. Once she’d left the ballroom, her walk turned into a run. She shot along the corridor, out of the front door and onto the terrace at a speed no pregnant woman could possibly have managed.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked an anxious-looking young man stationed at the front door.

“I think the baby’s coming,” said Virginia, clutching her stomach.

“Follow me, ma’am.” He ran down the steps ahead of her and quickly opened the back door of a guest limousine. Virginia climbed inside and collapsed onto the seat, just as two security guards came charging through the front door.

“Our Lady medical center, and step on it!” said the young man to the chauffeur.

As the car accelerated down the drive Virginia turned around and, looking out of the back window, saw the two guards chasing after her. She waved at them as if she were royalty, confident that Cyrus T. Grant III knew she was in town.

“You must have made quite an impression,” said Trend, even before Virginia had sat down. “Because when I called Cyrus Grant’s attorney this morning, he didn’t seem surprised to hear from me. We’ve agreed to meet at his office at ten tomorrow.”

“But I’m flying back to London this afternoon.”

“Which is just dandy, because a case this important won’t be settled in a hurry. Don’t forget, Cyrus is on his honeymoon, and we wouldn’t want to spoil that, would we? Although I have a feeling he’ll be calling his lawyers from time to time.”

“So what am I expected to do?”

“Go home, prepare for the birth of your child and wait until you hear from me. And just a word of warning, Ginny. They’re certain to have a detective in London keeping an eye on you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because it’s exactly what I’d do.”

Virginia boarded the 4:40 p.m. flight from Baton Rouge to New York. The plane landed at Kennedy just after 10 p.m.

She made her way to Gate 42 and thought she’d stop on the way to pick up a copy of Vogue. But when she saw the Barnes & Noble window was dominated by two bestselling books, she marched straight past. She didn’t have long to wait before passengers were asked to board the plane for London.

Virginia was met at Heathrow by a chauffeur once again supplied by Mellor Travel, who drove her down to Hedley Hall in Hampshire, the country home of Bofie Bridgwater. Bofie was there to greet her as she stepped out of the car.

“Did you pull it off, my darling?”

“I don’t know yet. But one thing’s for certain — when I return to London, I’m going to have to give birth.”

24

Buck trend phoned Virginia the following day to tell her that two Pinkerton detectives were on their way to England to watch her every move and report back to Grant’s lawyers. One mistake, he warned her, and there would be no settlement. Was there even a possibility that Trend suspected she wasn’t pregnant?

If Virginia was going to convince the two detectives that she was about to give birth, she would need the help of someone who was shrewd, resourceful and unscrupulous; in short, a man who considered fooling detectives and bending the law as simply part of his everyday life. She’d only ever met one person who fitted that description and, although she despised the man, Virginia didn’t have a lot of choice if the next eight weeks were to go as planned.

She knew only too well that he would expect something in return, and it wasn’t money, because he already had enough for both of them. But there was one thing Desmond Mellor didn’t have, and wanted desperately — recognition. Having identified his Achilles’ heel, all Virginia had to do was convince him that as the daughter of the earl of Fenwick, and a distant niece of the Queen Mother, she had the key to unlock that particular door and fulfil his ambition to be tapped on the shoulder by Her Majesty and hear the words, “Arise, Sir Desmond.”

“Operation Childbirth” was run like a military campaign, and the fact that Desmond Mellor had never risen above the rank of sergeant in the pay corps, and had never set eyes on the enemy, made it even more remarkable. Virginia spoke to him twice a day, although they never met in person, once he’d confirmed that the two detectives had arrived in London and were watching her apartment night and day.

“You must be sure they see exactly what they would expect to see,” he told her. “Behave like any normal mother-to-be, with only a few weeks to go before she gives birth.”

Virginia continued to see Bofie and his chums regularly, for lunch, even dinner, at which she munched sticks of cucumber and drank glasses of carrot juice, eschewing champagne for the first time in her life. And when pressed, she never even hinted who the father might be. The gossip columns settled on Anton Delouth, the unsuitable young French man who had accompanied her to Tenerife, never to be seen again. The Express kept reprinting the one blurred photograph they had of them lying on a beach together.

Virginia relentlessly carried out her daily routine, with touches of sheer genius supplied by Desmond Mellor. A chauffeur-driven car picked her up once a week from Cadogan Gardens and drove her slowly to 41A Harley Street, never running a red light, never seeking a faster lane. After all, she was heavily pregnant and, more important, she didn’t want the two Pinkerton detectives to lose sight of her. On arrival at 41A, a large, five-story Georgian town house with seven brass name plates by its door, Virginia reported to reception for her weekly appointment with Dr. Keith Norris.

Dr. Norris and his assistant then examined her for over an hour before she returned to the car and was driven home. Desmond had assured her that the doctor was completely reliable and would personally deliver the child in his private clinic.

“How much did you have to pay him to keep his mouth shut?”

“Not a penny,” replied Desmond. “In fact, he only hopes that I’ll keep my mouth shut.” He let her wait for a moment before he added, “When Dr. Norris’s attractive young nurse became pregnant, he certainly didn’t want Mrs. Norris to find out why he’d chosen Mellor Travel to organize her trip to a clinic in Sweden.”

Virginia was reminded once again that she didn’t need this man as an enemy.

“There are two more people who must be informed of the impending birth,” said Mellor, “if you want the world to believe you’re pregnant.”

“Who?” asked Virginia suspiciously.

“Your father and Priscilla Bingham.”

“Never,” said Virginia defiantly.

“Never” turned out to be a week later, in the case of Priscilla Bingham. When Virginia rang her old friend in Lincolnshire, Priscilla was reserved and somewhat distant — they had parted on sour terms after Virginia had caused the breakup of her marriage — until Virginia burst into tears and said, “I’m pregnant.”

Priscilla’s ex-husband Bob Bingham, like everyone else, was curious to know who the father might be, but that was the one thing Priscilla couldn’t prise out of Virginia, even during a long lunch at the Mirabelle.

Virginia took a little longer to obey Desmond’s second command, and even as the Flying Scotsman pulled into Edinburgh Waverley she was still considering returning to King’s Cross without leaving the train. However, she concluded she couldn’t win either way. If she told her father she was pregnant, he would probably cut off her allowance. On the other hand, if Buck Trend failed to secure a settlement and Papa were to discover she’d never been pregnant in the first place, he would undoubtedly disown her.

When Virginia walked into her father’s study at ten o’clock that morning, looking eight months pregnant, she was shocked by his reaction. The earl assumed the Daily Express had got it right and Anton Delouth was the father, and the cad had run off and deserted her. He immediately doubled her allowance to £4,000 a month and only asked one thing in return: that once Virginia had given birth, she might consider visiting Fenwick Hall more often.

“A grandson at last,” were the words he kept repeating.

For the first time, Virginia didn’t curse the fact that she had three brothers who’d only sired daughters.

On Priscilla’s advice, Virginia placed an advertisement for a nanny in The Lady, and was surprised by how many replies she received. She was looking for someone who would take complete responsibility for the child: mother, governess, mentor and companion, as she had no intention of fulfilling any of these obligations. Priscilla helped her prune the applicants down to a short list of six, and Desmond Mellor suggested she interview them on separate days, so the two detectives would have something new to report back to Grant’s lawyers in Baton Rouge.

After Virginia and Priscilla had interviewed the final five — one of them didn’t turn up — they both agreed that only one of the candidates ticked all the required boxes. Mrs. Crawford was a widow and the daughter of a clergyman. Her husband, a captain in the Scots Guards, had been killed in Korea, fighting for Queen and country. Mrs. Crawford turned out to be the eldest of six children and had spent her formative years raising the other five. Equally important, she had no children of her own. Even the earl approved of his daughter’s choice.

It occurred to Virginia that if she was to play out this charade to its ultimate conclusion, she needed to look for a larger establishment that would accommodate not only a butler and housekeeper but also the redoubtable Mrs. Crawford, along with her newborn child.

After viewing several desirable residences in Kensington and Chelsea, closely observed by the two detectives, she settled on a town house in Onslow Gardens that had a top floor Mrs. Crawford assured her would make a satisfactory nursery. When Virginia looked out of the drawing-room window, she noticed one of the detectives taking a photograph of the house. She smiled and told the estate agent to take the property off the market.

The only slight problem Virginia now faced was that despite her father’s generously increased allowance, she certainly didn’t have enough money in her bank account to pay for a nanny, a butler and a housekeeper, let alone the deposit on the house in Onslow Gardens. Her former butler, Morton, had phoned earlier in the week — he was no longer allowed to visit the flat — to say that Dr. Norris had provisionally booked Mrs. Morton into the clinic in a fortnight’s time. As Virginia climbed into bed that night, she decided she would have to call her lawyer in the morning. Moments after she’d fallen into a deep sleep, the phone rang. Only one person would consider calling her at that time of night, because he would still be sitting at his desk.

Virginia picked up the phone and was delighted to hear the deep southern drawl on the other end of the line.

“I guess you’ll be pleased to know we’ve finally agreed terms with Grant’s lawyers,” said Buck Trend. “But there are conditions.”

“Conditions?”

“There always are with a settlement this large.” Virginia liked the word “large.” “But we may still have a problem or two.” She didn’t care so much for “problem or two.” “We’ve agreed on a settlement of one million dollars, along with a maintenance order of ten thousand a month for the child’s upbringing and education.”

Virginia gasped. Not in her wildest dreams... “How can that possibly be a problem?” she asked.

“You must agree not to reveal the identity of the father to anyone, and that means anyone.”

“I’m happy to agree to that.”

“You and the child will never be allowed to set foot in Louisiana, and if either of you ever decide to travel to the United States, Grant’s lawyers must be informed at least a month in advance.”

“I’ve only been to the States once in my life,” said Virginia, “and I have no plans to return.”

“The child’s surname must be Fenwick,” continued Trend, “and Mr. Grant has to approve the Christian names you select.”

“What’s he worried about?”

“He wants to make sure that if it’s a boy, you don’t call him Cyrus T. Grant IV.”

Virginia laughed. “I’ve already selected the name if it’s a boy.”

“And if any of these conditions are broken at any time, all payments will immediately cease.”

“That’s quite an incentive to keep to the agreement,” said Virginia.

“All payments will automatically cease in 1995, by which date it is assumed the child will have completed his or her full-time education.”

“I’ll be nearly seventy by then.”

“And finally, Mr. Grant’s attorneys will be sending a doctor and a nurse to England to witness the birth.”

Virginia was glad Trend couldn’t see her face. Once she’d put the phone down, she immediately rang Desmond Mellor to ask him how they could possibly get around that seemingly intractable problem. When the phone rang again at 7:45 the following morning, Desmond had come up with a solution.

“But won’t Dr. Norris object?” asked Virginia.

“Not while there’s a chance he might have to explain to his wife and children why he’s been struck off the medical register.”

Virginia waited until she heard the siren before she called her lawyer in Baton Rouge.

“The baby’s going to be born prematurely,” she screamed down the phone. “I’m on my way to the hospital now!”

“I’ll inform Grant’s attorneys immediately.”

A few minutes later there was a loud knock on the door. When the butler answered it, one of the paramedics picked up Virginia’s overnight case, while the other took her gently by the arm and guided her to a waiting ambulance. She glanced across the road to see two men clambering into a car. When the ambulance arrived at 41A Harley Street, the two paramedics opened the back door and led their patient slowly into the private clinic, to find Dr. Norris and a staff nurse waiting for them. Norris left instructions that he should be told immediately the American doctor and his assistant arrived. He only needed fifteen minutes.

Nobody took any notice of the couple who slipped out of the back door of the clinic and took a taxi for the first time in their lives. But then, it wasn’t every day the Mortons were handed a thousand pounds in cash.

Virginia undressed quickly and put on a nightgown. After she had climbed into the bed the nurse dabbed some rouge on her cheeks and sprayed a little moisture on her forehead. She lay back, trying to look exhausted. Twenty-two minutes later the nurse rushed back in.

“Dr. Langley and his assistant have just arrived and are asking if they can witness the birth.”

“Too late,” said Dr. Norris, who left the patient to welcome his American colleagues.

“We heard it was an emergency,” Dr. Langley said. “Is the baby all right?”

“I can’t be sure yet,” said Norris, looking concerned. “I had to perform an emergency caesarean. The baby’s in an incubator, and I’ve given Lady Virginia a sedative to help her sleep.”

Dr. Norris led them through to a room where they could observe the new-born infant in the incubator, seemingly fighting for its life. A narrow plastic tube inserted into one nostril was connected to a ventilator, and only the steady beeps of the heart monitor showed the child was actually alive.

“I’m feeding the little fellow through a gastric tube. We just have to pray his fragile body will accept it.”

Dr. Langley examined the child closely for some time before asking if he could see the mother.

“Yes, of course,” said Norris. He led the two Americans through to the private room where Virginia was lying in bed, wide awake. Immediately the door opened, she closed her eyes, lay still and tried to breathe evenly.

“I’m afraid it’s been rather an ordeal for the poor lady, but I’m confident she’ll recover quickly. I wish I could say the same for her child.”

Virginia was relieved they only stayed for a few minutes, and she didn’t open her eyes until she heard the door close behind them.

“If you’d like to remain overnight, we have a guest room, but if you return first thing in the morning, I’ll be able to give you my written report.”

The Americans took one more look at the baby before leaving.

Later that evening, Dr. Langley reported back to Grant’s lawyers that he doubted the child would make it through the night. But then, he had no way of knowing that the baby had never needed to be in intensive care in the first place.

Dr. Langley and his assistant returned to 41A Harley Street the following morning, when Norris was able to report a slight improvement in the child’s condition. His mother was sitting up in bed enjoying her breakfast. She looked suitably anguished and pale when they visited her.

Other visitors dropped in during the week, including Virginia’s father and her three brothers, as well as Bofie Bridgwater, Desmond Mellor and Priscilla Bingham, who were all delighted by the child’s progress. Virginia was surprised how many people said, “He’s got your eyes.”

“And your ears,” Bofie added.

“And the ancestral Fenwick nose,” pronounced the earl.

On the seventh day, mother and child were allowed to go home, where the responsibility for the infant was taken over by Nanny Crawford. However, Virginia had to wait another three weeks before she could begin to relax, and that was only after she had been told, courtesy of Mellor Travel, that Dr. Langley and his assistant had boarded a plane for New York, accompanied by one of the detectives.

“Why hasn’t the other one gone back with them?” she asked Mellor.

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll find out.”

A wire transfer for $750,000 arrived at Coutts three days later, and was credited to the account of Lady Virginia Fenwick. Mr. Fairbrother rang and asked if her ladyship wanted the dollars converted into pounds.

“What’s the spot rate as we speak?” Virginia asked.

“Two sixty-three to the pound, my lady,” said a surprised Fairbrother.

“So what amount in sterling would be credited to my account?”

“£285,171, my lady.”

“Then go ahead, Mr. Fairbrother. And send me confirmation the moment you’ve completed the transaction,” she added, before putting the phone down.

Desmond Mellor smiled. “Word perfect.”

Virginia and a healthy little boy moved into No.9 Onslow Gardens sixteen days later, along with Nanny Crawford, the butler and a housekeeper. Virginia inspected the nursery briefly and then handed the child over to its willing new devotee, before disappearing downstairs.

The christening was held at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square, and was attended by the earl of Fenwick, who made one of his rare visits to London, Priscilla Bingham, who had reluctantly agreed to be a godmother, and Bofie Bridgwater, who was delighted to be a godfather. Desmond Mellor kept a wary eye on a solitary figure seated at the back of the church. The vicar held the baby over the font and dipped a finger in the holy water, before making a sign of the cross on the child’s forehead.

“Christ claims you for his own. Frederick Archibald Iain Bruce Fenwick, receive the sign of his cross.”

The earl beamed, and Mellor looked around to see the lone detective had disappeared. He had honored his part of the bargain, and now he expected Virginia to keep hers.