Fortunately there are other ways into Buckingham Palace, preferable to facing those formidable gilt-tipped gates and then crossing that vast expanse of forecourt under the watchful eye of those impossibly tall, bear-skinned guards and possibly Her Majesty herself. If you go around to the left, heading in the direction of Victoria Station, you can enter through the Ambassador’s Court and the visitors’ entrance. Even more desirable, if you follow the high brick wall along that road, you will come across a discreet black door in the wall. I gather it was used by my father’s uncle Bertie, who had a short but happy reign as King Edward VII, when he wished to visit the more shady of his lady friends. I expect my cousin David, the current Prince of Wales, has used it from time to time when staying with his parents. I was certainly making use of it today.

Let me say that I am not in the habit of visiting the palace from choice. One does not drop in for afternoon tea and a chat, even if they are relatives. I had been summoned, two days after my arrival in London. My esteemed relative the queen possessed one of the best underground intelligence networks in the country. I didn’t think that Fig would have contacted her, but she had found out somehow. A letter had arrived, on palace writing paper, from Her Majesty’s private secretary, Sir Giles Ponsonby-Smythe, indicating that Her Majesty would be delighted if I would take tea with her. Which was why I was slinking up the Buckingham Palace Road on a Friday afternoon. One does not refuse HM.

Of course I was more than a little curious to know why I was being summoned. In fact it crossed my mind that HM might sit me down to tea and then produce Prince Siegfried and a convenient Archbishop of Canterbury to perform the wedding ceremony on the spot. In truth I felt as Anne Boleyn must have done when Henry VIII asked her to drop in for a flagon of ale, and not to wear anything with a high neckline.

I didn’t remember seeing my exalted relatives since my presentation as a debutante—an occasion I won’t forget in a hurry, and I’m sure they haven’t either. I am one of those people whose limbs don’t always obey them in times of crisis. My gown with its long train, not to mention three ridiculously tall ostrich feathers bobbing in a hair ornament, was a recipe for disaster. I had entered the throne room on cue, heard the booming announcement—“Lady Victoria Georgiana Charlotte Eugenie of Glen Garry and Rannoch!”—and executed the perfect curtsy, as practiced a million times at deb school. However, when I tried to stand up, it seems that my high heel had somehow caught itself in the train. I tried to move, but was tethered by my own heel spike. I tugged, gracefully, conscious of those royal eyes on me. Nothing happened. I felt perspiration trickling down my bare back. (Yes, I know ladies don’t sweat, but something was trickling down my back.) I tugged harder. The heel came free and I was catapulted farther into the throne room as if I had been shot from a cannon at the very moment I should have been backing out of the royal presence. Even Her Majesty had looked mildly astonished, but nothing was said, on the occasion or subsequently. I wondered if it would come up over crumpets.