She put the pen down and began to read.
He interrupted. ‘Move it along, Wentworth! It’s just a formality. What you have there is a copy of the Official Secrets Act. By signing, you’re simply promising to reveal no state secrets … cross your heart and hope to die and all that. Breathe a word of what transpires tonight and I’ll stick you in the Tower.’ He feared his dismissive grin was not reassuring. She ignored him and read on.
‘Commander, this is unnecessary,’ she announced at last. ‘I’m an Englishwoman. My father is a war veteran. My grandfather was wounded in South Africa, fighting in a cavalry regiment for his country. My word — which I’ll readily give — should be good enough for anyone. I see no reason to sign such a document. It’s pointless anyway. Don’t you think I’d be hurrying to sign with an innocent smile and a contemptuous flourish if I were an anarchist … or a Communist … or a Fenian?’
The three words were delivered slowly. Joe guessed she was testing his reaction to one of these current bugbears of law and order. He recognized a game he’d played himself.
‘Instead of which you’re digging your heels in, fussing about details and threatening to ruin what could be a perfectly good evening. Champagne, caviar and Cecil Cardew’s band complete with crooner are all on the menu. To say nothing of the company of the most eligible bachelor in London.’ He allowed time for that to sink in. ‘Are you sure you want to sacrifice that spectacular dress for a technicality?’
After a moment he reached over, took up the sheets and put them away in a drawer, sighing. ‘Very well. We’ll just have to take for granted your loyalty to the State. It makes not a scrap of difference. Step out of line, Miss Wentworth, and someone … someone with more clout and bigger boots than mine … will settle your account.’
She didn’t seem to mind. ‘Now that sounds entirely reasonable to me. I’ll agree to that,’ she said. ‘And, in return, you have my word that I’ll do and say nothing that could — as far as I understand it — endanger the state. But tell me more about this bachelor. Not, I’m assuming, yourself?’
‘You assume correctly — if discourteously. If a list of such things were kept, I believe I’d feature at about number five hundred. And sinking weekly. The gossipmongers have rarely found me of interest and now I’m pleased to say they appear to have given up on me. The last time the hounds of the press noticed me I was billed as “back from India still a bachelor Sandilands”. And we all know what that means. It’s a degree worse than last season’s “confirmed bachelor”. It sends a clear message to mothers of marriageable daughters. “This one’s survived the Colonial Fishing Fleet — he’s clearly a hopeless case!” Not that many would welcome a policeman into the branches of their family tree. It’s not only the criminals that the words “Scotland Yard” send rushing for cover.’
He was chattering — still uncomfortable with his briefing task. He battled on. ‘No. You’re to look on me as no more than your escort — your chaperon for the evening — which, if all goes according to plan, you will spend in the close company of the aforementioned bachelor. Now — let me check — can you dance? Foxtrot? Quickstep? That sort of thing? Not a detail one finds mentioned in the files.’
‘Five years of Saturday mornings at the Stretton Academy of Tap Dance and Terpsichore. It didn’t seem relevant information for my application form. I dance adequately but I’m no Adele Astaire.’