“Of course, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

“There will be a parcel on my dressing table that someone will be picking up tomorrow afternoon. I would like you to keep it in your room until he gets here. I’ll leave you written instructions. Could you do that for me, and not tell the others?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Bainbridge. Is this part of these mysterious doings that you’ve been up to?”

“It is. Thank you, Millie. Good night.”

“Good night, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

Gwen had a headache in the morning. It was not improved when Lady Carolyne strode into the dining room during breakfast and tossed the morning paper, opened to the Society section, onto the table.

“‘Mystery woman dances with King,’” she said. “‘London society abuzz.’”

Gwen looked. There she was, smiling as the cameras caught them in mid-twirl. “I told them who I was,” she said. “They’re trying to make it more lurid.”

“They’ve succeeded,” sniffed Lady Carolyne. “Is that why you begged me for that invitation? So that you could audition for the position of royal mistress?”

“He already has a mistress,” said Gwen calmly. “This was only a dance. With a king.”

“He’s not a king at the moment,” said Lady Carolyne. “Why, when I danced with a king, he was the actual king of Great Britain.”

“Who is now a duke who married his mistress,” Gwen pointed out. “Lady Carolyne, you should thank me. I represented the Bainbridge interests to one of their customers last night. Think of all the shells I’ll sell.”

By the seashore, she was tempted to add, but refrained.

Lady Carolyne shook her head and left the room, fuming.

The walk to work helped relieve both the headache and Gwen’s irritation with her mother-in-law. She carried the Hamleys bag in one hand. She had a stop to make on the way.

Lorraine Calvert’s cousin lived in a brick townhouse on Pont Street in Chelsea. It was the long way to the office, but not worth the expense of a cab.

Gwen passed St. Columba’s church and made the slight turn to the left, then pulled up short and backtracked rapidly. There was a black Bentley parked opposite her intended destination, and the driver was one she had seen all too recently. She quickly walked the other way and turned onto Walton Street.

She had waited too long. They had got to Vivienne Ducognon first. There would be no information from that quarter.

The Tuesday-morning Mayfair commuters bustled about her, but petered out considerably when she turned onto the street on which The Right Sort was located. A boy of perhaps fourteen was bouncing a rubber ball against a wall. He tipped his cap as she passed, then suddenly took off past her, snatching the Hamleys bag from her grasp.

“Hey!” she shouted, but he had already turned the corner and vanished from sight.

Torgos sat in the passenger seat of a dark green Triumph Dolomite, waiting.

“There,” said Tadeo, glancing in the rearview mirror as the boy came running up with the Hamleys bag.