Field Marshal Pirin obviously had no sensibilities about eating venison. He too had a leg, which he now picked up in one hand while brandishing a wineglass in the other and taking alternate bites and swigs. I felt sorry for Nicholas and Anton if they were stuck with him as a frequent dinner guest at home.

Dinner finally came to an end and we ladies were led off to a salon while the men indulged in cigars and schnapps. Lady Middlesex intercepted me. She was dressed in a fearsome black gown, topped with a helmetlike affair that was no doubt intended to inspire awe among the inhabitants of the colonies. The effect was not unlike those suits of armor I had passed in the corridors.

“Ah, there you are. All settled in, then? Jolly good. Jolly good. We’ll be off in the morning. The princess is kindly arranging for a car.”

“Is Miss Deer-Harte not feeling well?” I asked, not seeing her among the ladies.

“She’s right as rain, as far as I know, apart from being jumpy about staying in a place like this. I had a tray sent up to her room. She couldn’t very well be allowed to join a glittering company like this for dinner, could she. She’s only a companion.”

“Here we are, then, isn’t this jolly?” Matty came up to me, her arm linked with Belinda’s. “I see you’ve made quite a conquest there, Belinda. Anton couldn’t take his eyes off you all through dinner.”

“Belinda’s hobby is making conquests,” I said. “She has left a long stream of broken hearts across Europe.”

“I hope not,” Matty said. “Fun is one thing, but broken hearts quite another. I hope I never have to break another heart as long as I live.”

As we came into the room I saw a group of middle-aged women, dripping with jewels and furs, examining us critically—or rather it appeared as if they were examining me. They beckoned me over to them.

“You are the Lady Georgiana from England, correct?” one asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Relative of British king?”

“Yes, my father and he were cousins.”

She looked at the other ladies and nodded. “Is good. English king has much power.”

“So tell me. You know Prince of Wales?” one of them asked. She was dressed in the height of fashion with a sleek cap of Marcel waves and brilliant red lips.

“Yes, I see him often.”

“One hears he has a new mistress?” she asked. “An American woman? A commoner?”

“I’m afraid so.” There was little point in denying it if the rumor had already reached Romania.

“What she is like, this woman?” my inquisitor persisted. “She is beautiful?”

“Actually not. Rather boyish in features and figure.”

“You see.” The woman turned triumphantly to her friends. “What do I tell you? Secretly he prefers boys. He will never marry and make a good king, that one.”