Masked Ball at Broxley Manor

fellow,” Prince Rupert said. “And now his daughter is grown up. Charming.” He looked around with annoyance. “And where is Otto? Not here when his father needs and commands him to be present. Most disrespectful. Sons today do not know zat zey must obey their fathers.”
    “We are well aware of that,” the queen said, turning to her husband. “Aren’t we, George?”
    “You mean the Prince of Wales, don’t you? Confounded boy. Won’t get married,” King George snapped. “Can’t force him. Would if I could.”
    “I expect young Otto will turn up eventually,” the queen said. “We must greet the rest of our guests.”
    She gave me a knowing sort of nod that I couldn’t quite interpret. My only satisfaction was that the red-faced man beside me had turned distinctly green, realizing he’d been about to seduce the king’s cousin. I smiled at him. “Jolly party, isn’t it?” I said and deliberately trod on his toe as I moved away.
    Other people came into the salon. The Duke and Duchess of York came over to greet me and I asked about their little daughters.
    “So Prince Otto hasn’t put in an appearance,” the duchess muttered to me. “His father is not well pleased with him. Just as Bertie’s father is not pleased with David. Heaven knows where
he
is tonight. Or with what type of woman.”
    “From what one gathers Otto and David have a lot in common,” the Duke of York said. I noticed that when he chatted with someone he knew, he hardly stuttered at all. “Both of them refusing to grow up and accept responsibility.”
    I saw Prince Rupert glancing at the entrance from time to time but Otto did not appear by the time the reception ended, the king and queen retired and the rest of us went home. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the taxicab that it finally struck me. “Oh, crikey,” I muttered out loud. I realized why I had been invited to the reception: they were trying to hitch me up with Prince Otto!
    I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised but I was. I was only a very minor royal, only thirty-fourth in line to the throne, but the king had no more daughters to dispose of and it was obviously a good idea to reestablish ties with postwar Germany. So I had been the sacrificial virgin after all. I wondered what Otto was like. I wouldn’t have minded marrying my cousin the Prince of Wales. He was rather dashing, and fun too, even if he was shorter than me. I remembered what Fig had said. Were they trying to foist Otto on me because he was actually mad? I was glad he hadn’t shown up. Who knows, they might have had a priest waiting in the anteroom.
    * * *
    I felt both scared and excited as I prepared to take the train to Broxley on Saturday. I really hadn’t been out in real grown-up society much and certainly hadn’t had experience in mixing with the smart set with their witty repartee. I hoped that Fig had been right and that the rest of my fellow debs had been invited. I wished I had a maid to accompany me and help me dress, but my own maid stayed in Scotland and Fig wasn’t about to lend me hers. Perhaps people as rich as the Merrimans would have maids to spare.
    The train journey seemed to take hours as the sun set in a fiery ball over the bleak October countryside. It was hot in the first-class compartment and I had almost dozed off when I heard a voice shouting “Broxley Halt.” I gathered my bags hastily and alighted. So did several others, including a smartly dressed woman with sleek black hair and a tall dark man with a mustache. She was wearing a gorgeous black mink and he had a fur collar on his overcoat.
    “They said they’d send an automobile for us,” the woman said in an American accent, “but I don’t see it. Go see if you can locate it, honey.” Her gaze fell on me, taking in my well-worn overcoat. “Are you bound for Broxley, miss?” she asked. “Coming to help out at the party?”
    Before I could answer indignantly that I was going
to
the party she went on. “They are sending a car for us but I expect we could squeeze you in somewhere. You certainly can’t walk in this weather.”
    A chauffeur in livery now approached. “Are you Lady Georgiana, my lady?” he asked. “I was sent to meet you.”
    “I am,” I said as he bent to take my bags. “And this lady and gentleman are also for Broxley. I expect we can find room for them, can’t we?” Then I smiled sweetly at the fur-clad American woman. She looked daggers at me. I decided that it was