“But you still call me miss, when I must have told you a thousand times that the correct way to address the daughter of duke is ‘my lady.’”

“Yeh, sorry. I always forget that one, don’t I? I suppose it’s because you don’t look like a lady to me. You look dead ordinary.” She reached the doorway and turned back to me. “Are we really stopping on here?”

“Until the end of the month, I expect,” I said.

She gave a dramatic sigh. “I don’t know much longer I can face that miserable old cow downstairs.”

“Queenie, it’s not up to you to pass judgment.”

“Well, you don’t have to eat with her. If she had her way, I’d starve—and the way she cooks, I’d rather starve sometimes.”

“I tend to agree with you there,” I said, “but I’ve nowhere else to go right now. You certainly don’t want to go back to Scotland any more than I do. My sister-in-law is always badgering me to sack you.”

“She’s another right cow,” Queenie said.

“Queenie. I’ve told you before—that is not the way you should speak of a duchess.”

“Well, she is. The way she treats you. It ain’t fair that you got no money and nowhere to go while she lords it over that bloody great castle. I think you should get your own little place in London like your friend.”

“With what?”

“You got a typewriter now, don’t you? You could be a proper secretary with a bit of practice. They make good money.”

A small bubble of hope formed itself in my mind. “I suppose I might, if I practiced hard.”

“Course you could.” She smiled at me encouragingly and I knew why I kept her. “Well go on then,” she added. “Get working.”

I sat at my typewriter over the next few days and worked away.

The queick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog

Thtqujivk brown box jumpsd over the lacy dobn.

Rats.

Ttj quick briwnficjunbpsobnerthf lax . . .

I wasn’t exactly improving at a rapid pace.

I was all right if I went slowly and carefully. I just got flustered if I was in a rush. The end of the month was getting closer. If I could only find a job soon then I could maybe stay with my grandfather for a few days until I got my first paycheck. Then I could look for a flat of my own. I wasn’t sure whether the royal kin would approve of my being a typist, or of staying with a retired London policeman in a little semi-detached with gnomes in the garden, but then they weren’t paying for my keep either. At least it was better than housecleaning and the escort service I had previously tried.

With time running out, I decided to visit an employment agency. First I used a sheet of writing paper with the Rannoch crest on it to write myself a reference. “This is to recommend Fiona Kinkaid, whom I have recently employed as my secretary. I have found her willing and efficient and satisfactory in every way. I am now going back to the Continent and wish her well.” I signed it with my mother’s round and childish signature, which was so simple to copy. I decided not to use my own name, just in case the press got wind of it and the family objected, so I used the name of a rather glamorous doll I had once owned. Then off I set to the nearest agency. It was up a flight of stairs, just off Curzon Street. Halfway up the stairs, I heard the clatter of typewriters going at an alarming pace. Suddenly the door opened and a girl stomped down the stairs past me. “Old dragon,” she muttered to me. “I only made one mistake and she told me I wasn’t up to snuff. They expect automatons, not people.”