“Have you thought she might be married?”

“Sigmund seems sure that she isn't.”

“I see,” Sophie said quietly.

Something in her tone made him put his arms around her. “I left soon after that because I could see the way Durmand's mind was working, and I didn't like it. My dear, how can I forget that when I offered to release you from our engagement, you refused, and stood by me so steadfastly?”

“You thought I'd turn my back on you because you had no crown to offer?”

“If I did, I was wrong,” he said tenderly. “No man could ask for more courage and loyalty that you've shown me-”

“But you may have to marry this other woman,” she interrupted him. “Perhaps it will be you who breaks our engagement, for duty. I understand, and you are free. But if it doesn't come to that-” she broke off, her voice husky.

Randolph was confused and embarrassed. From the country's point of view the ideal solution was for him to marry Princess Dorothea, “this interloper” as he thought of her. Then, under the guise of being her consort, he would rule Elluria as he had been raised to do, and nobody would care about his feelings for Sophie, or hers for him.

He'd never pretended to be in love with her, but they were friends, and he was furious at being required to behave badly toward her. It offended his sense of himself, and there was much haughty pride in it. But there was also much generosity. The situation was very bitter to him, and not merely on his own account.

He wasn't a conceited man, but now it seemed to him that Sophie had more true feeling for him than he'd suspected, and that touched his conscience. Perhaps she knew this, and was pleased. She was a very clever woman.

Sophie's brother Dagbert sauntered in. He was in his early twenties, strikingly like his sister, except that too much self-indulgence was already beginning to show in his face.

“So what are you going to do?” he demanded when Randolph had outlined the situation. “Pity it's not a century ago. We could have had her assassinated.”

“That wouldn't make me legitimate,” Randolph pointed out. “I intend to bring her here, and see how we can make the best of it.”

“You mean you'll marry her and carry on as before,” Dagbert said sharply.

“He means that we shall all do our duty,” Sophie said. “Whatever it may be.”

Randolph pressed her hand in gratitude, and made his escape. He found Dagbert's callow vulgarity oppressive.

When brother and sister were alone the young man regarded her through narrowed eyes. “What deep game are you playing, Soph?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Yes you do. Why cling to the engagement? You ought to be hunting bigger game.”

“What makes you think I'm not?”

Dagbert gave a crack of laughter. “I see. Keep him on the string just in case.”

“What have I got to lose? This English servant won't come to anything. Randolph is still the biggest 'game' in Europe.”

“Except for Harold.”

“Harold's marrying that woman with the millionaire father.”

“That's been put on hold,” Dagbert murmured. “Harold thinks his prospects are improving every day. But you're right. Keep your options open-just in case.”

Randolph's trip to England was made incognito. His secretary made a reservation at The Grand Hotel in the name of Edmond Holsson, and a special passport in that name was hurriedly produced by the Ellurian Ministry of the Interior. Thus armed, Randolph flew to London, and took a taxi straight to the hotel.

He had often visited friends in England, but they lived in the great country houses that were like palaces, or in Mayfair, the most expensive part of London. He'd never ventured to the shabbier parts of the city, and didn't even know where they were. So the hotel's address, in an area of London called Wenford, set off no alarm bells in his head. But as the cab took him farther away from the city center and his surroundings grew poorer and more dreary the alarm bells began ringing with a vengeance. When the driver sang out, “Here it is!” he stepped out and regarded the place with horror.

The Grand Hotel was a narrow, three-floor building of peeling paintwork and red brick that needed repair. It was evening and the pink neon sign was on. Some of the letters were missing, so that the sign actually read The Gran Hot.

Inside was a poorly lit hall and a reception desk, but no receptionist. Randolph rang the bell and an elderly man in shirtsleeves emerged from some inner region.

“Good evening,” Randolph said politely. “I have a reservation. Edmond Holsson.”

“Right,” Jack said, eyeing the stranger's expensive clothes and air of breeding. “If you'll just sign here, sir, you're in Number 7. It's all ready-that is-” a thought seemed to strike him and he added quickly, “would you be wanting something to eat? The hotel restaurant closes in half an hour. It's an excellent place. My manageress takes personal charge of it.”

“Would that be Ms. Dorothea Hebden?” Randolph asked cautiously.

“It would indeed, sir. Have you heard of her?”

“Of the excellence of her work,” Randolph confirmed.

“Well, just go through that door over there. The porter will take your bags up.”

With deep foreboding Randolph passed through the connecting door and found himself in a café whose chief merit was its cheerfulness. The tabletops were laminate, in a truly vile shade of red. Worse still was a small palm tree made of plastic that was clearly meant to dress up its surroundings. Randolph gazed at the palm, dumbstruck at its sheer awfulness.

The waitress, a dainty blonde with fluffy hair and the face of a mischievous imp, called out to him, “Sit down, love. I'll be over in a minute.”

Randolph didn't want to sit down in this place but his knees were threatening to give way with shock, so he found a corner table that was partly concealed by the palm, and tried to be inconspicuous. It was hard because, surrounded by men in shirtsleeves and overalls, he was the only one in a proper suit.

Where was the high-class establishment of his imagining? A mirage. Instead, this. This! And he'd committed himself to spending the night in the place. He'd told himself that no sacrifice was too great for his country. Now he began to wonder if he'd been wrong.

The waitress was gathering plates vigorously. At the table behind her a young man leaned across and patted her behind, making her turn with a little squeal and a reproving, “Hey, watch it!”

“Sorry,” the young man said, grinning. “Couldn't help myself.”

“Looks to me like you were helping yourself,” she riposted. “Keep your hands off or I'll set Mike on you.” She was laughing as she eased away from him, wriggling gracefully to avoid his hand again.

A good-natured young woman, Randolph thought, but hardly the person he sought.

Another waitress bustled out from the kitchen. She was dark, comely and extremely well built. She called out, “Dottie, do you want me to do the corner table?”

“No thanks Bren, I've grabbed him,” the blonde sang back. She waved at Randolph and called cheerily, “You don't mind me grabbing you, do you love?”

“Not at all,” he replied politely, trying to conceal his growing dismay. Dottie! Dorothea? This was Princess Dorothea?

At that moment one of the men at the table whispered something to her and she went into peals of laughter. It was a delightful sound, rich and resonant, full of the joy of life. But princesses did not laugh in that unrestrained way.

She scurried over to Randolph, and sat down at the chair opposite with a sigh of relief. “Okay if I sit down to take your order? It's been a long day and my feet are killing me.”

A flash of inspiration came to Randolph. He assumed an air of hauteur to say, “As a matter of fact, it's not 'Okay.”'

She rose at once. “All right, all right, keep your hair on.”

“Keep-my-hair-on?” he echoed in bewilderment, feeling the top of his head. “Are you impertinent enough to suggest that I'm wearing a wig?”

Again her laughter bubbled up. “Blimey no! It's just an expression. It means don't get worked up. Keep your hair on.”

“But why hair?”

“I don't know. It's just, well, you're not English, are you?”

“Is that a crime?” he asked sternly.

“No, it's just that it's an English expression and, well, you're not English, so you don't understand it.” She made a wry face. “I think I've said enough.”

“More than enough,” he said coldly. “Now, if you don't mind, I should like something to eat.”

“Sausage and beans? Sausage and fries? Sausage and bacon? Sausage and eggs?”

“Do you do anything that doesn't come with sausage?”

“Hamburger with beans? Hamburger with fries, ham-”

“Thank you, I get the picture,” he said hastily. “You'll pardon me for saying that the cuisine hardly lives up to the place's name.”

“Cuisine? Oh, posh food. No love, nothing posh about us.”

“So I gather,” he murmured heavily.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Down here it says 'liver and bacon'-”

“Sorry, liver's off. It's the end of the day. We ran out an hour ago.”

“Rabbit stew?”

“We ran out of that two hours ago.” She checked her watch. “And you'll have to be quick. We close soon.”

“Close? With an unsatisfied customer?”

“Well, if we could find something you like-”

“But I've already found two things that I like, and you said they're both off,” he said, trying to sound peevish. He was really getting into the skin of the part now, seeking the point where her patience would fray. Turning the screw a little further, he added acidly, “This hardly seems a very well-run establishment.”

“It's a little backstreet café, not the flamin' Ritz,” she protested. “I know what my customers like and I cater for it.”