The Blood Royal

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Foxton was all smiles. The princess was all smiles. She even leaned forward and pecked at each of Lily’s cheeks in welcome while she held her hands.

‘How simply delightful to see you again, my dear Lily! This is not too late — or too early — to join me in a pot of chocolate? I was just about to indulge … Good.’ She turned to the maid. ‘And we’ll have French macaroons with that, Katy.’

There was a trace of something … roses, Lily thought … in the air. The princess had smelled of nothing more than Pear’s soap when she approached. So, Lily guessed, it was reasonable to suppose that Anna Petrovna had until a moment ago been in the morning room conferring with Princess Ratziatinsky. Her hostess was in receiving mode but at leisure in a purple Circassian kaftan. Lily’s own white linen dress, borrowed at the last minute from her aunt Phyl, would pass muster, she thought. Restrained, unlikely to attract attention.

They chatted of this and that as the maid poured out the chocolate and handed macaroons and shortcake biscuits. When she bobbed and left, the princess’s tone became brisk.

‘So. You come, the commander tells me, equipped with olive branch, white flag … something of that nature?’

Lily laughed. ‘It’s more of a message in a cleft stick.’ She was determined to keep the business light. She had chosen to bring her documents with her in a battered old military messenger’s pouch she had been given by her soldier grandfather. ‘This bag,’ she said with an air of mystery, ‘was once the property of the Royal West Surrey Regiment. It carried the news of the relief of the siege of Ladysmith. It is still doing its bit.’

The princess smiled. ‘Coming to the relief of besieged ladies?’

‘Yes, that. But its main purpose is, as it always was, to serve its country. I know you understand that.’

The princess raised an eyebrow and smiled again. ‘Produce your rabbits,’ she said.

Lily was pleased to have raised both pencilled eyebrows when she handed over the photograph of the Koptyaki grave.

‘But this is …’

‘Given to me by His Royal Highness. And I am delighted to have it. If there’s anything our secret service is good at, it’s spotting secrets and decoding messages. One look at this and the interpretation was clear.’

The princess peered more closely at the picture. On the hook, Lily judged. She launched, in a confiding, excited but carrying voice, into Sandilands’ invention of Romanov survival. She noted that, by the end of her account, the princess was looking pale and disturbed, thin fingers twisting in the pearls at her throat. ‘And all escaped? Is this what your government is thinking?’ she murmured. ‘The painting had not spoken to me.’ She placed the picture on the table at her side, not offering to return it.

Lily dived into the bag again and took out the Californian letter.

‘For Anna? But this has been opened,’ the princess objected, before correcting herself. ‘Ah. Yes, of course … it would have been opened.’

She listened carefully to Lily’s prepared explanation and nodded her understanding. Unfolding the letter itself, she gasped as the lock of hair became visible. Mastering her emotion, she read the letter and read it again. She held it to the light and examined the watermark. With a quivering hand she extracted a slender skein of hairs from the thick lock and wound it round a finger, tears gathering in her eyes. Then she replaced the letter in its envelope. This also came in for scrutiny.

‘We haven’t finished yet,’ said Lily. ‘Here’s a news cutting explaining the letter. Perhaps you saw this? Tatiana has been indiscreet, clearly. Distance from the centre of things leads to lack of concentration. Our consul is aware and taking steps. But in San Francisco she remains for the foreseeable future. Last exhibit: a passage to San Francisco for Anna Petrovna.’

Lily talked on, delivering her rehearsed speeches, reacting to the princess’s sharp questions when they came. She gave information when she could, admitted ignorance where an answer was outside her brief or her invention. And the moment came for her departure.

‘You may keep all these items. Except for the bag I brought them in. My grandfather was badly wounded carrying it between General Buller and Spion Kop,’ she said. ‘I like to think those are his bloodstains. I would not want to lose it.’

The princess shuddered delicately and gestured to Lily to take it back.

Coming to the end of the exchange, the princess walked to the bell-pull to summon Foxton. Lily was puzzled to see that she did not actually tug hard enough to make contact. A few moments later: ‘Foxton? Curse the man! Where can he be? I’ll show you out myself.’

At the front door and out of earshot of any listener, the princess grasped Lily’s hand and spoke urgently. ‘You have done your best. And now it’s up to me to do mine. You must understand that our loyalties are like railway lines … they are going in the same direction but they never actually converge. Disaster if they did!’ She smiled. ‘I have many irons in the fire — you know that. I trade with this side and that, trying to keep a balance, but my loyalties are always with my people. And Anna is very dear to me. I would move heaven and earth to protect her and achieve her happiness … if that is still possible. I have been making my own quiet arrangements to resolve our problem. But I see I must put on a burst of speed to keep up with Sandilands. He is moving faster than I would have wished.’

Her voice became more sombre. ‘I cannot promise I shall succeed. Great hatred runs deep and, once under way, gathers momentum and powers itself. It is not easily diverted from its course. In fact, I know of only one thing strong enough to counter it. An equally great love!’ Her face lit up with youthful mischief as she added: ‘What was the date of the sailing? So soon! I must make a telephone call to Paris without delay!’

Lily knew she was walking unsteadily, and put it down to euphoria. She took a deep breath of fresh morning air, hitched the leather bag more firmly on to her shoulder, set her eyes on the end of the elegant row of houses and made for the Thames.

It had gone better than she had expected. And faster — hastened by the princess’s understanding and anticipation. Passing the conversation anxiously in review, she couldn’t recollect a slip. She prepared to entertain Sandilands with her account. There were no taxis about to speed her journey but there was really no hurry and it was only a mile or so from Kensington to Westminster. She had time enough to stroll along down Birdcage Walk on her way back to the Yard. There was nothing more she could do. It was out of her hands and into Bacchus’s. The thought brought relief.

She passed Buckingham Palace, and wasted several minutes mingling with the crowd watching the guard change. She was skirting St James’s Park when the hairs on the back of her neck gave her warning. By the time she entered Great George Street with the Thames sparkling ahead of her, she was sure she was being followed. One of Bacchus’s men? With an unprofessional rush of mischief, Lily decided to flush him out. No shoelace business — these men would scorn such a ploy. The street was relatively empty. He should be easy to spot. She stopped abruptly and looked behind her.

A young woman in a cream linen walking suit was striding out in the opposite direction. Across the road, a nursemaid was pushing a baby in a pram into the park to visit the duck pond. A vicar in a black homburg hat had stopped to shake a rattle and coo to entertain this youngest member of his flock. Two men, walking purposefully, bowler hatted both of them and practically invisible on the London streets, caught her eye. One of these? Lily waited until they were within yards of her and she was sure of receiving an unprepared reaction, then stood in the middle of the pavement and nonchalantly lifted her skirt. She bent over and proceeded to straighten her stocking and adjust her garter. Whichever man she caught staring at her leg she reckoned would be an innocent city gent, the one looking hastily aside at the architecture would be Bacchus’s man.

To her confusion, both men stared and hurried by. One uttered a ‘Faugh!’ of disgust, the other turned and objected: ‘I say, miss! This is Westminster! The Wellington Barracks are a hundred yards back down the road. You’ve missed it.’ He pointed helpfully.

Lily was still shaking with silent laughter when her arm was seized from behind and clamped tightly to the side of a tall woman striding out towards the Thames. Lily had to scamper along to avoid being swept off her feet, such was the onward rush, the iron grip on her arm.

Cream-coloured linen, no gloves, no handbag. She’d left home in a hurry. But she’d snatched the time to pull on a cloche hat in natural straw. A waft of Attar of Roses confirmed Lily’s identification.

‘Anna?’ she murmured. ‘Anna Petrovna, is this you?’