Well, that battle would not be fought until His Lordship returned from inspecting the family holdings in East Africa. The autumn term was still a month or so away, Little Ronnie and she were still together, and Sir Oswald would be there to protect her. Even in the theatre.

She yawned, the stimulation of the evening’s activities finally draining away. She smoothed the curls away from her son’s forehead and kissed him softly. He murmured something in his sleep that she could not catch, then began breathing deeply again.

She crept out of the room and closed the door.

How do narwhals applaud? she thought drowsily. Such a wonderful picture. Agnes was a darling for staying up to give it to her. Governesses are our national treasures. Our national nannies.

Nannies.

She thought about Philip, fleeing Corfu with his family at the point of a gun. How old would he have been? He was five years older than the princess. In 1922, he would have been one or two.

There must have been a nanny, she thought. No doubt an English one, given Princess Alice’s background. And a lady’s maid. Probably two, given all those girls to handle.

I wonder what they knew?

Iris was first to the office the next morning. She held up an opened letter with a triumphant grin when her partner came through the door.

“Good news,” she announced. “Miss Pelletier has received a proposal from Mr. Carson!”

“Bravo!” said Gwen, hanging up her hat. “That was one of yours, I recall.”

“You supported it fully,” said Iris. “Do you know what that means? We are only one marriage away from reuniting you with Cecil!”

“Oh, Cecil!” cried Gwen. “How I long to see you again! To slide my legs—Well, there is no way to complete that sentence without committing an impropriety.”

“I wonder who will be next. Mr. Trower did not hit it off with Miss Sedgewick.”

“No surprise. She wanted him for the frisson of dating an exonerated man. Does he wish to continue through the list?”

“He does, and I would hate to disappoint the rest of the thrill seekers. There may be one or two amongst them who will work out.”

“Do you think so?”

“Miss Conyers might be a good fit for him.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t like Miss Conyers?”

“Not for our Mr. Trower. Miss Donnelly, on the other hand—”

“Care to make a small wager on who gets him?”

“We promised that we wouldn’t bet on a client’s success or lack thereof,” said Gwen.

“We did,” remembered Iris. “A sound policy, now that I consider it. Best get back to work.”

“Yes,” said Gwen. “Oh, before we do, I must show you this.”

She carefully unrolled Little Ronnie’s picture and handed it to Iris, who held it to the window and examined it critically.

“That is you in a cat costume being watched by a narwhal in a top hat,” she said. “This is quite nice. Your son is going through a surrealist phase. I like it much better than his early cubist work which, frankly, I found derivative. Talented boy.”