I've just come back from Abdin Palace having been dragooned into acting the part of an admiring spectator while Prince Farouk displayed his falconry technique. He's thirteen but looks younger, probably because he's treated as if he's still a baby. Everything is done for him. I tried to chat to him about the orphanage I do voluntary work for-he will be the next king, after all, and you'd think he'd take an interest-but he simply said anyone not having parents was very lucky. Which has to be the most stupidly flippant remark I've ever heard. Darius said I have to remember he's only thirteen and still a child. I'm trying to, but he made me very cross (Farouk not Darius).

I'll be glad when it's August and you come back to Cairo. It will still be stiflingly hot, of course, but we can go to Mena House and swim in the pool. It's the first year I can remember when Papa hasn't moved to a rented house in Alexandria to escape the worst of the summer, but the situation is such he feels it his duty to stick things out here and so obviously I'm here with him. Things are never dull. A water buffalo trampled a fence and got into the garden yesterday. Adjo got it out again, though not without a great deal of hollering and arm-waving. It was tremendous fun. Better than a Charlie Chaplin film.

I'm thinking of asking Papa if I can train as a nurse. The problem is, where would I study? And don't say London. I can't bear the thought of living there. What I'd really like to do is to become a doctor, but I don't have your academic ability and the exams would be beyond me. It's all a bit of a problem but I'm sure it will sort itself out.

Lots of love, Davvy As it was so obvious Davina didn't have a clue that plans were being made for her to have a London season-and, worse, that her father was certain the present year was his last in Cairo-Petra wondered how she should break the news. A letter seemed very blunt, and a phone call, directed through operator after operator, wasn't much more satisfactory.

After mulling the issue over for several days she decided to do nothing in the hope that perhaps the situation would change by the end of the summer. Her mother often spoke off the top of her head and, with a bit of luck, the remarks she had made while on the way to the photographer would prove to be no more than wishful thinking.

As Petra attended a frenetic round of dances and b.a.l.l.s- often barely knowing the debutante whose party it was-she enjoyed herself hugely. At every event she saw Annabel and Boudicca and they also met up nearly every day, either at Gunter's Tea Shop or at the soda fountain at Selfridges.

Petra's own coming-out ball was held during the first week of June and both Magda and Suzi came to London to attend it.

"Find me a glorious duke who owns half of England," Magda said as the five of them sunbathed in the walled garden at Cadogan Square, drinking c.o.c.ktails, "and I'll be a happy girl."

"Every English duke I know is a crusty old man." Petra swirled her ice cubes around with her finger. "What you need is a young and dashing heir-presumptive."

Magda, superbly sophisticated in a black sun-top, black shorts, and white plastic-framed sungla.s.ses, rolled from her tummy onto her back, gold hair streaming out like a fan over the gra.s.s. "As long as home is a ducal palace and the income is in six figures, I don't mind. Have I told you my mother is getting divorced again? It will be the sixth husband she's discarded. My grandmother says it borders on carelessness."

They all giggled. Magda's racy mother was a favorite subject of conversation.

"She was a guest at Berchtesgaden last month," Magda continued, taking off her sungla.s.ses and closing her eyes. "I'm simply keeping my fingers crossed that she isn't setting her sights on our beloved Fuhrer."

"Your beloved Fuhrer," Petra said chidingly. "He certainly isn't our beloved Fuhrer. We all think he's a horrid little man and can't understand why you Germans are getting so excited over him."

Magda opened her eyes. "He's making us feel like a nation again," she said easily. "When we lost the war, we lost our pride. Hitler is giving it back to us." She sat up, reached for the gla.s.s perched precariously near to her, and said, "A Tom Collins tastes even better, Petra, if you add strawberry schnapps to it. They sell schnapps in London, don't they? I'll try to get you a bottle."

That her father wasn't in London for her dance was a great disappointment to Petra, but as it was common knowledge that there had been a fresh outburst of violent anti-British feeling in Cairo, no one was too surprised that Lord Conisborough was remaining in the troubled city.

"His not being here leaves us with a sticky problem," she said to her mother while Delia was supervising the distribution of acres of fresh flowers.

"Here come the hydrangeas," Delia said as the delivery men brought in the pots of blue flowers. "I'm going to stand those in all the fireplaces."

"You're not listening to me, Mama. I said that Papa not being here presents a problem."

"Which is?" Delia didn't take her eyes off the flowers. "D'you think the carnations will look right with the lilies and roses? I'm beginning to wonder if I made the right decision when I said I would arrange them myself with a little help from Gwen. Lady Mowbray had Constance Spry do the flowers for Annabel's ball and they were absolutely cracking."

"The flowers will be fine. What will not be fine is that my father won't be here for the first dance. And I don't have a brother or even a cousin. Have you any ideas?"

She had finally caught her mother's attention. "You're right, honey. How on earth did I overlook a thing like that?" She frowned, deep in thought, and then said, "Perhaps Winston could stand in for Papa?"

"No," Petra said firmly. "I don't mind the fact that so many family friends are going to be guests, but I am not going to endure Mr. Churchill as a stand-in for Papa. For one thing, I'm far taller than he is. I'd look ridiculous."

Sheaves of scarlet late-flowering tulips were carried past them, their scent heavy and sweet.

Her mother chewed her lip. "Dear Pugh would never be able to complete a circuit of the ballroom. His gout is far too bad. Now, if only dear Cousin Beau were alive ..."

Petra prayed for patience.

"But as he isn't," her mother continued, happily oblivious of her daughter's reaction, "we'll have to look elsewhere." She paused for a second and then said, "What about Sir John Simon? I don't think Britain has ever before had a foreign secretary who is such a wonderful dancer. His predecessor, the Marquess of Reading, was a calamity at a ball."

Petra hesitated. She quite liked Sir John Simon. He was sixty, tall, lean, patrician-faced, austerely handsome. He looked like her father. And that would, she knew, only make her father's absence more obvious.

"No," she said firmly. "Not Sir John Simon."

"Well, Lord Denby is out. He's been sick since March. And Cuthie Digby can barely walk anymore, let alone dance."

"The proper person to stand in for Papa," Petra decided, "is Jerome. I know he's not a relation-but then neither is anyone else you mentioned-and I can't think of anyone I'd rather have."

Instead of looking pleased that the problem was solved, her mother looked aghast.

"Why the shock?" Petra asked as the deliverymen carried the last of the flowers into the house. "Papa wouldn't mind. If you'd realized the problem earlier and spoken to him I'm sure he would have suggested Jerome. I'll ring him and ask him and I'll tell him to think about what waltz the orchestra should play. I'd like something nice and old-fashioned. Perhaps 'Roses from the South' or 'On the Beautiful Blue Danube.'"

By the end of the afternoon, the house was en fete. Delicately colored carnations twined around the magnificent bal.u.s.ters of the grand staircase; ornate arrangements of lilies and roses graced every highly polished surface. The first-floor drawing room, its floor waxed to a high sheen, had been turned into a ballroom with small gilt chairs hired for the occasion set around the walls. A vast marquee erected in the garden was the supper room and the air inside it was heavy with the scent of the flowers decorating the damask-covered, silver-laden tables.

Before the ball there was a formal dinner party at which her mother's friends, not hers, were the guests. Among them was Margot Asquith, now in her late sixties and as caustic-tongued as ever. The former d.u.c.h.ess of Marlborough, now Madame Jacques Balsan, had journeyed all the way from her home on the French Riviera. Thirteen years younger than Margot, she was still sixteen years her mother's senior, and not for the first time Petra marveled at the way her mother had always welcomed her father's friends, even though they were nearly all a generation older than she was.

Petra wondered if her mother had found it tedious and if that was the reason, with her father away, that Delia had begun spending so much time with the Prince of Wales and his friends-all of whom were her age, and many of whom were American. Was her mother taking advantage of the fact that her father wasn't around? And was that why she was so careful never to refer to the Prince of Wales as "David" when in Gwen's company?

It was an interesting thought, as was the realization that so many of the people who had played a large part in her mother's life were now dead.

"No George Curzon and no Herbert Henry," her mother said sadly, making sure that all the name cards were in the right position on the dinner table. "Which is a great loss. They always made every party a special occasion."

Petra had never met either Lord Curzon or the Earl of Oxford and Asquith. Not wanting her mother to become gloomy, she said brightly, "But you are good friends with one of Lord Curzon's daughters. You see an awful lot of Baba, don't you?"

"Yes." Her mother straightened Winston Churchill's place-setting card. "And if it wasn't for Tom Mosley being such a political wild card I'd probably see far more of Cimmie, as well."

During the dinner Petra was seated between her uncle Pugh and Winston Churchill. On any other occasion she would probably have enjoyed Winston's rumbustious conversation, but she was too keyed up to appreciate it.

At ten o' clock, the dinner over, guests began to pour into the house. Magda and Suzi, who were staying with Annabel, were among the first to arrive, but there was a seemingly endless stream of other debutantes and she was staggered to realize how many of them she now counted as close friends. The point her mother had made when discussing why it was she wanted Davina to be presented was obviously a valid one. It did provide a girl with as wide a circle of suitable friends as possible. And though she wasn't interested in any of the "eligibles"-the veritable army of upper-crust young men who had been invited-it was great fun to recognize nearly all of them from previous parties and to be, for one evening at least, the absolute center of attention.

She knew she looked sensational. Her mahogany-red hair was just as thick and naturally wavy as her mother's and she wore it fashionably short, with deep waves framing her face and a cl.u.s.ter of curls at the nape of her neck. Unlike many other debutantes, she'd elected not to wear virginal white. She had wanted to wear a long and slinky dress in bias-cut gold satin, with a halter neck and a plunging neckline.

Her mother had vetoed it. "Land's sakes, Petra!" she had said, appalled. "It looks like one of Thelma Furness's gowns! Wear that and you will be labeled 'fast.'"

"So what can I wear?" she had said exasperatedly, knowing full well that Magda's gown would be virtually backless and would cling to every voluptuous curve.

"Chiffon would be a good choice. Perhaps floral chiffon. Or floral chiffon and tulle."

Petra shook her head. It was Lucille, her mother's favorite dressmaker, who had come to her rescue, designing a starkly simple, foot-skimming gown in mint-green taffeta. It was arrow-straight with a wide, slashed neckline and huge puffed sleeves. It crackled as she moved and amid a sea of pale-pastel and floral gowns she stood out in just the way she had wanted. Her only ornament was a huge white rose pinned in her hair.

Her mother had looked at it with an odd expression, as if she was remembering something. Then she had given herself a little shake and said, "Unusual, honey. But it certainly works."

Catching sight of herself in one of the giant mirrors lining the walls, Petra was happy with her choice of dress.

Everything else was working, too. The orchestra her mother had hired was terrific. Gunter's had done the catering and the menu for supper included quail, lobster, chicken in aspic, and asparagus, followed with Charlotte Russe, traditional English trifle, and strawberries and cream.

Jerome did an exquisite job waltzing her around. Annabel clung to Fedya Tukhachevsky's side and Suzi hadn't sat out one dance. All her partners not only were startlingly handsome but were heirs to vast estates. Petra hadn't seen her dance with a younger son even once. It was as if she could sniff them out at a glance.

Magda's partners, on the other hand, were all distinguished older men. Winston was quite obviously utterly bewitched by her. Sir John Simon couldn't take his eyes off her golden hair and silver lame dress. Neither, though, were bachelors. And Petra was sure that only a very distinguished, exceedingly rich bachelor was going to seriously engage Magda's attention.

Despite having met and bowled over more eligible young men than the average girl would in a lifetime, Petra knew that none of her highly agreeable partners would ever seriously engage her attention. Only Jack was capable of doing that.

And Jack was hundreds of miles away.

Wishing that he could have seen how she looked, Petra lifted a gla.s.s of champagne from the tray of a pa.s.sing waiter. Jerome, an excellent dancer despite his barely noticeable limp, was performing some very nifty Argentinean footwork with Magda. It wasn't a performance any of Magda's previous partners would have been able to give. At the thought of Winston executing a tango, Petra giggled.

"Rupert Pytchley is searching for you," her mother said, looking oddly out of sorts as Jerome and Magda caught her attention. "And don't giggle when you're not in conversation with anyone. It looks as if you've had too much champagne- and you haven't, Petra, have you?"

Petra rather thought that she had, but just said, "I'm going to stand outside the room for five minutes and get a little air. Jerome doesn't seem at all put out about Aunt Sylvia wanting a divorce, does he? News that they've separated has already begun to spread. Aunt Gwen told me about it 'in confidence' an hour ago."

Her mother said nothing, but as she looked across the dance floor to where Jerome and Magda were continuing with their cabaret-worthy performance, her generously curved mouth showed signs of strain.

As Petra walked from the ballroom she knew she shouldn't have brought up a subject that would cause her mother distress. Divorce in their social circle was not to be undertaken lightly and there was no telling what the effects of it would be on Jerome's career. It was reason enough for her usually carefree mother to look concerned.

Outside the ballroom the air was refreshingly cool. The muted strains of the tango came to an end and the orchestra began playing "Love Is the Sweetest Thing." Just then, the front doorbell rang.

From where she was standing, Petra saw Bellingham cross the marble-floored hall. Idly she wondered who the late arrival would prove to be. It was close to one o'clock and nearly time for supper. Certain it was going to be a friend of her mother's-none of her fellow debutantes would be arriving at such a late hour-she turned away to enter the ballroom again.

As she did so, she heard the sound of the door opening. And then the voice she'd been longing to hear for months.

"Good to see you again, Bellingham," Jack said cheerily. "I'm a bit late, but better late than never. I've come from Lisbon via Paris and the boat train was delayed."

Petra spun around, her heart beating so hard that for a second she had to rest her hand on the bal.u.s.trade to steady herself.

As Bellingham closed the door behind him, Jack looked upward.

Their eyes met.

His face broke into a broad grin.

"Sorry I didn't make it for your presentation, but the good news is that I'm not here on leave. I'm back in England for good."

She gasped and then, as he took the stairs two at a time, she began to run down them. They met on the broad first half-landing and as he opened his arms she hurled herself into them, dizzy with joy.

His arms closed around her and she knew, even before he spoke, that things were going to be different between them.

"I've missed you," he said, and the expression in his gold-flecked eyes sent her pulse racing.

Still in the circle of his arms, she said, her voice thick with emotion, "All my life I've missed you when you're not with me-but I've never felt able to tell you so before."

"And for the last two years, there have been things I've never been able to tell you."

The throb in his voice told her she didn't have to ask what those things were.

For a long, long moment their eyes held and then, as the strains of "Love Is the Sweetest Thing" drifted down the stairs toward them, he lowered his head to hers and his mouth was hot and sweet on hers.

ELEVEN.

It was the most transfiguring moment of Petra's life. She knew, deep in her bones, that what was happening between them wouldn't be a transient romance. This was love. Just as she had known ever since she was sixteen that Jack was the only man in the world for her, she now knew that he had felt the same. Her age had been the only barrier to his telling her so.

As he lifted his head she said, "I wish you'd told me you were only waiting until I was eighteen before letting me know that you loved me. Your father kept telling me how you were seeing the Marquis de Fontalba's daughter. He thought you were about to become engaged."

Amus.e.m.e.nt tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You're quite right in that I love you-though it would have been more usual for you to wait until I'd told you so. As for Beatriz ..." He paused teasingly and, seeing the apprehension in her eyes, said gently, "Beatriz de Fontalba is an absolutely stunning girl and desperately in love with an Argentinean to whom, being neither t.i.tled nor wealthy, her father violently objects. She asked me if I would act as a cover for the two of them."

"That's all right, then," she said, her relief vast. "And now I want you to waltz me round the ballroom. Your father kindly stood in for mine at the first dance, but if you whirl me round the floor I shall remember it to my dying day."

"Best not to walk in there in such an intimate fashion," he said as, arms around each other's waist, they walked up the stairs toward the ballroom. "Not until we've put your parents wise to the situation."

She missed her footing and his arm tightened around her, steadying her.

"There's something you should know," she said. "My mother isn't going to be as happy as you might expect. And it's only fair to tell you that she rather thinks I'm interested in Darius."

He came to a halt outside the ballroom doors. "Darius?" he said, staring down at her in baffled astonishment. "Darius?"

Giggles fizzed in her throat. "I found it useful as it threw her off the scent where my feelings for you were concerned."

"But why the devil did she need to be thrown off the scent? I would have thought she'd be over the moon if we married. Our parents have always been so close. I always regarded your mother and father as family. The blunt truth is, I spent more time as a child with your mother than I did with my own."

He ran a hand distractedly through his curls. "I think you've got this all wrong, Petra. I reckon your mother was just concerned about you falling in love at such a young age. I don't think she will mind having me as a son-in-law."

Understanding flooded through her. Jack's explanation was entirely logical.

"Then we'll simply tell her that as long as we have her permission to become engaged, we're quite happy to wait until I'm twenty-one before we get married."

"I've missed something here. Was there a proposal of marriage?"

She blushed furiously, and then, as the orchestra in the ballroom began playing a popular fox-trot, he lowered his head to hers and kissed her. "Will you," he said softly, "please marry me, Petra?"

"Oh yes," she said, her face radiant. "I've always wanted to marry you. I just thought that you were never going to ask!"

The ballroom doors burst open and a laughing group of guests spilled out, almost knocking them off their feet.

"It's Jack Bazeljette!" a friend of his shouted. "What ho, Jack! Typical of you to get here just in time for supper!"

As the news that Jack had arrived spread Petra saw her mother turn and look in their direction. And she saw her instant reaction. It was one of such pleasure and welcome she didn't have a single remaining doubt that Jack had been right.

Certain of all the happiness the future held for her, she walked into the ballroom at his side and five minutes later was waltzing with him to the unforgettably romantic strains of a Strauss waltz.

For the remainder of her party they behaved as if nothing exceptional had happened between them. Jack danced with several of her friends. She danced with several of the eligibles. Annabel whispered to her that she thought Jack was "absolutely brill"-and wanted to know what his prospects were. Fedya Tukhachevsky asked if he was Italian. Occasionally their eyes met and her heart leaped with such violent desire she thought she would die.

As dawn broke, Jack, who was dancing with Boudicca, worked his way over to her. "How about us all scarpering off for breakfast?" he said, speaking to both of them. "Fedya has his car with him and I picked up mine en route from the station. We could be in Brighton by six thirty."