Jazz music spilled out of St. James’s Mansions as our motorcar pulled up outside the modern block of flats overlooking Green Park. We joined the line of taxicabs outside, disgorging passengers in evening gowns, fur coats, tails or tuxedos. As we waited for our turn in the lift I was suddenly struck by a sense of déjà vu. It had been at one of Gussie’s parties that I had witnessed a terrible tragedy, and I had put it from my mind until now. It had been the same kind of party, the same kind of music, the same crowd that night, and I had been there accompanying another princess. I found myself shivering in the icy blast that swept in across the foyer from the open front door. Around me voices chattered excitedly, the sound echoing back from the high ceiling, and I glanced back at the door, wondering if I could perhaps come up with a good excuse for abandoning the party and returning to Kensington Palace. But before I could make my mind work we were propelled forward into a packed lift and whisked up to the sixth floor.

As we emerged from the lift the music had become so loud that I could feel the thump of the beat resonating through the floorboards. I wondered what the neighbors might be thinking. I hoped there weren’t any stuffy old colonels in the building or we’d be having a visit from the police. The door to Gussie’s flat was open. As I ushered Marina into the foyer I caught a glimpse of a Negro jazz band playing in the drawing room. The carpet had been rolled back and it was dark in there, but full of gyrating shadows. Marina turned to me with an excited little smile. I tried to return the smile but my insides were clenched. Golly, I was charged with looking after her, keeping her safe, and I was taking her to a place where a murder had once occurred. But the culprits had been caught and Gussie was a harmless enough chap, wasn’t he? Besides, he was getting married too, and he knew that he’d invited a princess to his party. Coats and wraps were taken and we were just heading toward the barman dispensing cocktails when Gussie himself came out of the drawing room, mopping his face with a white silk handkerchief. He was a rather large lad—Clydesdale rather than Thoroughbred—but he looked distinguished in tails, and his face broke into a broad smile when he saw us.

“You came, old thing,” he said, holding out his hands to me, “and you brought Her Highness with you too. Jolly good show. I’ve made sure I vetted the guest list when I knew you were coming, Your Highness. None of my disreputable bachelor friends, don’t you know.”

“Oh dear,” Marina said. “I hope it won’t be too boring now.”