Free Masked Ball at Broxley Manor by Rhys Bowen Page B

these Prussian princes, Georgiana?’
    “Never met either of them,” I said. “I’ve never been to Germany.”
    “Rupert is one of the kaiser’s younger sons,” Binky said. “I met them when they came over once before the war.”
    “Wasn’t Otto the mad one?” Fig asked. “Didn’t they have to lock him away?”
    “He was all right when I met him,” Binky said. “We played trains under the table and he wasn’t foaming at the mouth or anything. Of course I was only about five at the time. He spoke English quite well too, I remember. He had an English governess.”
    “He’s obviously not foaming now or Their Majesties wouldn’t have invited people to a reception to meet him,” Fig said dryly. “But we do know that insanity runs in all the royal families. That’s the one thing Georgiana can be thankful for—that her father married a commoner.”
    I was surprised she even acknowledged my mother, who had been a famous actress and was now a famous bolter, having run off with an absolute string of men across the globe.
    “Of course the Prussian lot are not in power anymore,” Binky said, going back to his newspaper. “They are only princes in name. Although I understand that there is some talk of restoring the monarchy to keep out the communists.”
    “Don’t tell me the communists are threatening to take over Germany now,” Fig said. “Surely the Germans aren’t silly enough to think that Russia is a good role model for anyone.”
    “The communists are everywhere, Fig. Even in England. Anywhere where there is discontent among the masses, and Germany certainly has its share of that at the moment. We must stamp them out before they can do real damage. I hear that Rupert especially is in very thick with the new National Socialists. Now they seem to have the right idea.”
    Fig was clearly disinterested in politics. “So when is this reception at the palace, Georgiana?” she asked, examining her face in the looking glass over the mantelpiece.
    “Next Tuesday, and then the ball is in Hampshire on Saturday. Golly, what a busy week.”
    “And what on earth will you wear?” she asked. “You don’t exactly have the right wardrobe for a place like Broxley.”
    “My white deb’s gown should be suitable for the reception, shouldn’t it? And my tiara, since it’s royalty. But as for the ball, I don’t think I’ve got anything smart enough.” I looked at the invitation again. “Wait a minute,” I said. “It’s a masked ball.”
    “Does that mean just masks or does it mean fancy dress costumes?” Fig asked, looking at Binky for the answer.
    “Blowed if I know, old bean.” He looked up over his newspaper. “Never been to a bally masked ball. Never want to go. Not a ball-going type of chap. Why don’t you telephone Broxley and ask them?”
    “Telephone?” Fig demanded. “All the way to Hampshire? Binky, you talk as if we were made of money. Georgiana will have time to write to them, and receive a reply, all for the cost of a postage stamp.”
    “I’ll go and write to them immediately,” I said, sliding off the window seat. “If I have to provide a costume, I’ll need enough time to get something together.”
    As I went upstairs I heard Fig mutter to Binky, “She gets invited to the palace and to places like Broxley Manor and yet nobody has proposed to her yet. What on earth is wrong with her? We’ll have an old maid on our hands if we’re not careful.”
    “Oh, steady on, old bean. She is only nineteen,” I heard Binky say as I ran up the second flight of stairs. The conversation made me feel sick and hollow inside. Since my brother had inherited the title and estate after our father died, he was now Duke of Rannoch and owned the family homes. And his wife constantly made it clear that she wasn’t thrilled about having me around. But I had nowhere else to go—no money and no skills to survive on my own. Besides, the world was in the throes of a great depression and even people