“I didn’t think so, but it was worth asking. I know some people who know some people. I’ll see if any of them know the right people. Have there been any other developments at your end?”

“None,” said Patience. “Is there any way of speeding up this process?”

“Grant us clairvoyance and a team of researchers,” said Gwen. “But that would create a higher risk of leaks. You’re trading speed for confidentiality. We’re working as fast as we can, but there are only two of us.”

“True, very true,” Patience sighed. “All right. Do keep me posted. Call the moment you learn anything new.”

“How shall we reach you over the weekend?”

“Weekends do not exist for us until we sort this affair out,” said Patience. “Mrs. Fisher will be at this number and will know how to reach me. And I have your number in Kensington if there is any emergency. Do you have Miss Travis’s number?”

“I do,” said Gwen, feeling pleased that she recognised Iris’s cover name without hesitation. “She doesn’t like me to give it out. Call me rather than her.”

“Very well,” said Patience. “Keep in touch. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

She hung up.

Paris in the early twenties, thought Gwen. Someone well-connected in society, now in her mid to late forties, with children of the same age so they might remember an expatriate set of royals.

She thought of three possibilities. She pulled out her address book and began making calls.

Sparks sat on a bench in Paddington Street Gardens, reading the Guardian. It was hot, but a leafy chestnut tree gave her protection from the sun. After some time, an older man walked by. He stopped to watch a group of children playing in the distance, then noted the empty space next to her on the bench.

“May I?” he asked.

“Suit yourself,” said Sparks, not looking up from her paper.

He sat with a sigh of contentment, but his back never touched the back of the bench.

“Nice to have all this shade,” he commented.

“We live in the shadows,” said Sparks. “Speaking of which, where’s your bodyguard?”

“Shame on you, Sparks,” he said. “You’re slipping.”

“Right,” said Sparks, pulling her compact out of her bag and reapplying her powder while shifting the mirror about. “Ah. There’s the Bentley, and there he is.”

“So, what are we doing here, Sparks?” asked the Brigadier. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

“No, sir. Sorry. I wanted to ask about an old colleague of yours.”

“Why?”

“We’re vetting a prospective bachelor, and this man’s name came up.”

The Brigadier was not known for showing reaction to situations, so the twitching of one eyebrow spoke volumes.

“Do you mean to say that you went through security protocols and dragged me away from fighting the secret wars so you could arrange a marriage?” he said.

“We don’t arrange marriages,” said Sparks. “We arrange introductions. The marriages happen or they don’t.”

“You were infuriating when you were young, Sparks, but this is another level.”