The Cavendon Luck. Barbara Bradford Taylor

was a large space, with windows at one end, and two huge crystal chandeliers dropped from the ceiling. Masses of flowers were placed everywhere, and it struck her that there was a feeling of real glamour here tonight. A quartet played in one corner; white-gloved waiters in tails moved deftly between the guests, their silver trays filled with flutes of champagne and an assortment of canapés.

      Glancing about, Diedre noticed the life-sized portrait in oils of King George VI hanging on one wall. He had stepped into the breach when his brother Edward had abdicated, and was now their King. Thank God Edward was never crowned, she thought. There would have been an even bigger mess.

      Instinctively, she had always felt George VI would be a good King. He was brave, the way he managed and dealt with his speech impediment, that awful stutter. He had a lovely wife, who was now their most graceful Queen, and two little girls, Elizabeth and Margaret Rose. He was very much a family man, and always referred to them as ‘us four’, as if they were united against the world. Perhaps they were.

      Tony, Miles and Charlie were taking flutes of champagne from the passing waiters, and handing them around. Once everyone had a glass in their hands, the group moved farther into the room.

      As usual, there was an instant lessening of the chatter, and the overall noise dropped several octaves, as many heads turned to ogle the glamorous, aristocratic Inghams.

      Charlie and Hugo had wandered into the middle of the crush within minutes, curiosity propelling them forward.

      ‘I wish them lots of luck, plunging into the crowd,’ Diedre murmured.

      Cecily said, ‘Do you know anyone here, Diedre?’

      ‘No, not really. But I do recognize a couple of faces over there … amongst that group of men. They’re all foreign correspondents, mostly from the British papers, and I think the fellow they’re focusing on is William Shirer, an American writer. He’s considered to be the expert on the Third Reich. He’s covered Berlin for years.’

      Daphne said, ‘I want you three to know that I’m really rather impressed with Charlie. I’ve seen his seriousness about going into journalism, and he’s certainly very focused and knows a lot. He just sucks up information.’

      ‘He really is a gatherer of news,’ Cecily interjected. ‘Miles thinks he’s got what it takes, don’t you, darling?’

      ‘Yes, I do indeed. He’s good, Daphers, very committed to his future career. He just needs air, space, the way you’ve given it to him the last few days,’ Miles thought to add, not wishing Daphne to say defensively that she didn’t stifle her son.

      A moment later, Tony was coming back, ushering a handsome couple towards them and saying to Daphne, ‘This is your old friend, Lady Arabella Cunningham, who is now Princess von Wittingen, and her husband, Prince Kurt.’

      ‘Goodness me! Arabella, how lovely to see you,’ Daphne exclaimed, thrusting out her hand, a huge smile spreading across her face.

      The Princess smiled back, and said, ‘It’s been years since we’ve seen each other, but you haven’t changed, Daphne. You’re still the great beauty.’

      After shaking hands with the von Wittingens, Diedre, as usual, became the observer, listening to everyone else, enjoying the warm conversation in progress. She thought Arabella and her husband made a handsome couple, and from what she was hearing they were regular visitors to the British Embassy, as were several of their friends, whom they were expecting to arrive shortly.