I turned on my heel and followed her back down the stairs. Face facts, Georgiana. How idiotic and naïve of me to think that a few weeks pecking away at a typewriter would make me into a secretary. I was a hopeless case. Unemployable. I now had no alternative other than to go home to Castle Rannoch with my tail between my legs, unless . . . I paused, remembering what Belinda had said. Surely being a lady-in-waiting to an elderly royal relative would be better than Fig. Anything would be better than Fig.

I found the writing paper again and addressed a letter to Her Gracious Majesty, Queen Mary.

I agonized over whether to start it “Dear Cousin Mary,” or “Your Majesty.” I opted for the latter. The queen was a stickler for formality. I explained that I would prefer not to go back to Scotland and wanted to do something useful, but unfortunately had nowhere to stay in London as my brother had closed up the London house. Any help or introduction that she could give me would be gratefully accepted.

I finished “I remain Your Majesty’s most humble and devoted servant, your affectionate cousin, Georgiana.”

Then I took it to the post, held my breath and waited.

Chapter 3

CHEYNE WALK, CHELSEA, AND BUCKINGHAM PALACE

It was only two days before the end of the month and Mrs. Tombs was dropping not-too-subtle hints that she hoped I’d hurry up and clear out because she had cleaning to do before the next lot came in. I was beginning to despair when I received a reply from Buckingham Palace.

“My dear Georgiana,” Her Majesty had written in her own hand. “Your letter arrived at a most fortuitous time. If you would care to come to tea tomorrow, I think I might have an interesting little assignment for you.”

It was signed “Your affectionate cousin, Mary R.” (the R meaning Regina, of course). Even when she was being affectionate she always remained correct.

I stood there, studying the letter, not knowing whether to be excited or worried. The queen’s past little assignments had ranged from hosting a visiting princess to stealing a purloined snuffbox. One never knew. At least it would be better than a cold, bleak castle in Scotland. I went upstairs to make sure I had something suitable to wear. I chose the skirt and dusky-pink cashmere cardigan that my mother had given me for Christmas. They were the closest I had to daytime chic. Then I had to remind Queenie not to pack them with the rest of my belongings.

“So where are we going then?” she asked.

“I have no idea. But somewhere.”

“I hope it’s abroad again,” she said. “I could do with some of that Froggy food again after her downstairs. And sunshine too.”

A glorious picture of the villa in Nice swam into my head—the Mediterranean sparkling blue at the bottom of the cliff, the scent of mimosas in the air. It was probably too much to hope for. Then I reminded myself that it had been dangerous too. I hoped this assignment would not involve danger. Excitement was fine, but I’d prefer not to come within an inch of my life again.