“You have skills and talents,” I said. “I don’t.”

“What about the typewriting?”

“I don’t think I’m good enough to be anybody’s real secretary yet. And anyway, I’ve nowhere to stay.”

“I’d invite you to share my little mews place but there’s only one bedroom, and it would rather cramp my style—in case I decided to bring someone home occasionally.” She didn’t add that the someone in question would undoubtedly be of the male sex.

“I understand,” I said.

“Of course, you have one trump card I don’t have,” Belinda said. “You can always ask your royal relatives to help you.” I should probably mention that Queen Victoria was my great-grandmother and thus King George was my first cousin, once removed.

“Belinda, I can’t ask them—” I began but she cut me off.

“You’ve helped them out enough times. What about that princess, or that snuffbox? They owe you a favor, Georgie.”

“You’re right,” I said. “But in their eyes I have two choices open to me—marry a half-lunatic European prince or become a lady-in-waiting to an elderly royal aunt.”

“There are one or two rather handsome European princes. Remember Prince Anton?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to marry out of duty. I already have a chap I love.”

“How is the divine Darcy?”

I looked down at my cup. “Off on some jaunt again. The Argentine, I believe. I do love him, Belinda, but he’s hardly ever here.”

She nodded in sympathy. “Well, even the second of those choices you mentioned sounds preferable to living with Binky and Fig at the moment, don’t you think? Would it be too odious living in a stately home in the country? There would be good food and maybe hunting, and interesting people might come to stay.”

“You really are an optimist, Belinda. But it would be in the depths of the countryside and I’d have to wind wool and walk horrid little dogs that nip my ankles. I want a life of my own, not to be a hanger-on in someone else’s life.” I looked up at her. “So how do you plan to find the money to finance your clothing line? Any rich men in the picture at the moment?”

“I’m only just back from Paris, but I’m working on it. I’ve been to Crockfords every night.”

“You’re going to rely on gambling to come up with the money?”

“Not exactly, darling.” She gave me a cheeky smile. “There are still an amazing number of rich men who go there to gamble—Americans, colonials, foreigners. I look sweet and helpless and ask them for tips on how to play roulette. They always put down my stake for me. But I’m really looking for what the Americans call a sugar daddy.”

“Belinda—you wouldn’t! You wouldn’t really let an older man take care of you just for the money, would you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t see how else I’m going to get rich. There don’t seem to be too many eligible and rich young men around these days. If they are eligible, they are stony broke like Darcy. If they are rich, they are either married or old and flabby. I suppose I might find a ninety-year-old millionaire and marry him.”