“Don’t answer back, girl,” he snapped at me.

Seething with annoyance, I went to get my mother a chair and a cup of tea. She accepted both with a smirk. “I need cheering up, Georgie,” she said. “I am quite desolate. You heard about poor Hubie, of course?”

“Hubie?”

“Sir Hubert Anstruther. My third husband, or was it my fourth? I know we were definitely married because he was the straightlaced type who wouldn’t countenance living in sin.”

“Oh, Sir Hubert. I remember him.” I did too, with a warm kind of glow. He was one of the few husbands who had actually wanted me around and I still had fond memories of the time I spent at his house when I was about five. He was a big bear of a man who laughed a lot and had taught me how to climb trees, ride to hounds, and swim across his ornamental lake. I was brokenhearted when my mother left him and moved on to pastures new. I had rarely seen him since, but I received the occasional postcard from exotic parts of the world and he sent me a most generous check for my twenty-first.

“He’s had an awful accident, darling. You know he’s an explorer and mountaineer. Well, apparently he’s just had a terrible fall in the Alps. Swept away by an avalanche, I believe. They don’t expect him to live.”

“How horrible.” Instant feelings of guilt that I hadn’t been to see him recently, or even written anything more than thank-you letters.

“I know. I’ve been devastated ever since I heard. I adored that man. Worshipped him. In fact I believe he was the only man I truly loved.” She paused. “Well, apart from dear old Monty, of course, and that gorgeous Argentine boy.”

She shrugged, making the silver fox around her neck twitch in a horribly lifelike way. “Hubert was very fond of you too. In fact he wanted to adopt you, but your father wouldn’t hear of it. But I believe you’re still mentioned in his will. If he does die, and they say his injuries are absolutely frightful, you won’t have to work behind shop counters anymore. What do the royals think about this, anyway?”

“They don’t know,” I said, “and you are not to tell them.”

“Darling, I wouldn’t dream of telling them anything, but I really can’t come to London never knowing when I’m going to be served by my own daughter. It just isn’t on. In fact . . .”

She looked up with a charming smile as Miss Fairweather approached. “I am so sorry to keep you waiting like this, your ladyship. It is still your ladyship, isn’t it?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Just plain Mrs. Clegg these days—I believe I am still legally married to Homer Clegg. What an awful name to be stuck with but Homer is one of these straightlaced Texan oil millionaires and he doesn’t believe in divorce, unfortunately. Now, my needs are very simple today. Just a jar of that very special face cream you always keep hidden away for me.”