Joe acknowledged the accuracy of his calculation with a grin. ‘He’s the one who guards the guards.’
‘Then you had to assume it would be the POW. Our flamboyant, sociable, risk-taking prince. Oh, yes. Prime target. And an easy one. What a coup his death would be! Everybody loves him to bits. It would kick the English right where it hurts. But a woman involved? I’m wondering how reliable your information is …’ He faltered under Joe’s sudden hard stare. ‘Just a passing thought … And Irish, you say? No. Any flame-haired beauty approaching the prince with a gleam in her eye and a Beretta in her pocket will fall under suspicion and the weight of a pack of hearty Branch men before she gets within range of him. And had it occurred to anyone that, though the Irish and the Russians between them occupy a lot of space in London town, it’s not the same space? Class, wealth, culture, political ambitions — they have no meeting point. They don’t know each other. You’re barmy! There’s going to be no Kathleen O’Shea at this party!’
‘Another man with a misconception about the Irish. Who said anything about flame-coloured hair?’ said Sandilands. ‘She’s dark. And she doesn’t have an Irish accent. It’s pure Mayfair.’
In the crossfire of two astonished stares, he smiled sheepishly and added: ‘I’ve seen her eyebrows. And heard her speak.’
He stopped the car short of the hotel and handed Tate a note and signature scrawled on an invitation card. ‘Show this at the door and they’ll let you in. A moment!’ he added, catching Cyril by the shoulder as he prepared to get out. ‘Any last-minute advice for Miss Wentworth? You’ve been trailing our subject for years and must have observed him closely. How should she play her hand? She’ll be with him for the whole evening. It might not be easy for her.’
Cyril cut him short with a freezing glance and turned his gaze to Lily. ‘He’ll be delighted, love. Any man would. Any red- or blue-blooded man, would. I’d say be confident, be direct and keep it light. He’s very informal with women. Likes to chatter and laugh, bursts into song on occasions — he knows all the latest tunes.’ Cyril turned back to Sandilands, struck by a sudden thought. ‘In fact Lily and the prince are two for a pair, you’ll find. I don’t suppose you had any idea when you set this up, Sandilands. He loves a story, whether he’s telling it or listening. He’s a good listener. The time will fly in his company, Lily. Oh — I’ll pass on something I’ve noticed … something that doesn’t seem to have been noted by those of less impure imagination than my own.’
Joe gave a warning gesture but Cyril grinned disarmingly and pressed on. ‘He seems to quite enjoy being bossed about. Now, any bloke trying that on will receive a right royal set-down and a flash of temper — he’s got one! — but he rather plays up to a pretty girl wagging a stern finger at him. Nursemaid with a cockney accent — now that might be the perfect combination to set the royal pulses racing.’
Lily sighed. ‘Another one of those? Thanks, Cyril. It’s not my style, but if all else fails I’m sure I can play Nanny Whacker.’
Joe grunted in disapproval at the lèse majesté he was hearing from this pair and thrust Cyril’s camera bag at him. ‘Watch out for the Georgian gorillas on the door. They’ll probably search you. They’ve got knuckles like billiard balls,’ he added.
Lily waited until the chauffeur had closed the door before she spoke. ‘She’s dark, sir?’