Zinia’s lip curled. ‘I can tell you the outcome of that claim. Whatever the truth of it, the woman will be rejected and Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova will be buried a second time.’
‘Why so certain?’
‘The last thing Europe wants to see is an heir to the Tsar’s fortune making an appearance. It has been removed, apportioned and secreted away. And — dare one say it? — even spent. The Tsar was far sighted enough to take out insurance with European banks against his premature death in favour of his children. An enormous amount. No one wants to pay out such sums to a doubtful claimant — or a genuine one! Besides, the young Anastasia was a fiend. Better not resurrected. No, the present custodians of the fortune are not going to surrender it, however compelling the case. The world has outgrown the Romanovs. There is no place for them. If the Tsar himself were to rise from the dead, he’d have to take his chances at the roulette table like the rest of us. Like Gustavus.’
‘Murder and impersonation? The behaviour you’re describing does not go unpunished in England. This is a civilized country. I have a friend …’ Lily said hesitantly, ‘a friend of some influence who might be able to help you if you were to lodge a complaint with him.’
‘An influential friend?’ the Russian said, eyes narrow with suspicion. ‘You have avoided answering my question. Who are you? Who are you to intrude on my unhappiness, offering to pin up my hem and repair my life?’
‘An emissary. Lily Wentworth. I’m the guest of the Prince of Wales this evening. We were rather expecting you to join our table. If you come up now, you’ll be in time for the last of the caviar. And we’re promised a peach pavlova for dessert.’
But her positive tone couldn’t penetrate the gloom in which the Russian had cocooned herself. She shook her head, determined to hold fast to her despair. Lily took her by the hand.
‘Listen, Zinia, there is only one way out of here and that is up the stairs and through the Grand Salon to the door. Hold on to my hand. I won’t let you come to harm.’
Lily suffered a minute or two of exasperation as the girl sniffed and sighed, made her mind up, and changed it, made it up again. Finally, she allowed herself to be led from the room. They climbed the stairs and made their way along the short corridor to the Grand Salon. Lily pushed open the door, still holding tightly to her captive. She was determined not to release her before Sandilands had had a chance to get a look at her face. He would be able with the flick of an eyebrow to let her know whether this was — improbable though Lily thought it — the girl who’d passed herself off as Harriet Hampshire. After that, the lady would either be in handcuffs or free to go wherever she wished.
They reeled back before the happy din of an inebriated crowd underpinned by the strict rhythm of Cecil Cardew, who was well into a post-prandial slow waltz. But the happy sounds were torn apart by a woman’s shriek.