‘No.’ The blood had drained from May’s face. No one, absolutely no one, ever mentioned the word ebenbürtig to her. Even Toria, when pointing out that May stood no chance of ever marrying an heir to a royal throne, hadn’t done so. To have referred so bluntly to the stain in her father’s lineage would – even for someone as insensitive as Toria – have been a step too far. In a shaky voice she added, ‘I don’t want to play croquet with you, Georgie Wales. I don’t think I shall want to play croquet or anything else with you, ever again.’

She pushed past him, painfully aware of Eddy having been a witness to her humiliation. When she was safely a good half-dozen yards away she slowed down and looked behind her.

Both Wales boys were standing perfectly still, staring after her, Georgie in comical mystification, Eddy inscrutably – the fashionable way he was dressed making the near two-year difference between him and Georgie seem years greater than it actually was. As his dark eyes met hers, May’s heart began to thud and she whipped her head back round so that he wouldn’t see the effect he had on her.

Even though she was the Wales children’s third cousin, she had always spent more time with them than she had with any of her other cousins. Marlborough House, the Wales family’s London home, was as familiar as her own home, which made Toria and Georgie’s remarks about her semi-royal status doubly distressing.

She began to give herself a good talking-to and, although still hurt and angry, her emotions came once again under tight control. If Georgie was going to grow up as insensitive of people’s feelings as his father, then there was nothing she could do about it. Eddy, thank goodness, was nothing like his father, although he was an enigma to everyone but his adoring mother. May knew one thing, where Eddy was concerned, and that was that he wasn’t insensitive. His sensitivity was one of the reasons she had such a crush on him – that and his mesmerizing gold-flecked eyes.

Just as she reached the thickest part of the woodland she was waylaid by a forlorn-looking Hélène of Orleans, the eight-year-old daughter of the Count of Paris. ‘The Parises’, as Queen Victoria always referred to Hélène’s family, lived in exile from France in Buckinghamshire and were accepted as being almost family.

‘I’m looking for Eddy,’ Hélène said, appearing to be on the verge of tears. ‘He said he would teach me how to whistle, but I can’t find him anywhere.’

‘He’s on the top lawn, with Georgie.’

‘Is he?’ Hélène’s face brightened. ‘Thank you ever so much, May.’ And she set off at a run in the direction of the house.