Masked Ball at Broxley Manor

useful to be royal after all.
    “So you’re Lady Georgiana,” the woman said as the motorcar took off. “I’ve heard about you. Most eligible deb of the year, aren’t you? Have you landed a husband yet, or is the royal family supposed to hitch you up with a European princeling?”
    I thought she was being frightfully informal to someone she didn’t know, so I reverted to formality, as I always do when nervous. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced,” I said.
    She threw back her head and laughed. “You British are so delightfully stuffy. Wallis Simpson, honey. Newly arrived from Baltimore and friend of Lady Merriman.” She glanced to her left. “And this is my husband.” To him she said, “This young lady is related to the royals, so mind your manners.”
    We rode the rest of the way in near silence. Wallis Simpson powdered her nose and applied a red gash of lipstick to her mouth. Then we turned in between gates and I got my first glimpse of Broxley. It was called Broxley Manor but it was nothing like my idea of a manor house. The old manor houses are usually square and low and simple. This was Victorian indulgence at its most opulent, complete with turrets, battlements, towers. I had studied up on it during the week and read that the present viscount’s grandfather had made a lot of money in the India trade, had the old manor pulled down and this monstrosity built instead. They were now one of the richest families in England.
    “Well, they’ve certainly done themselves proud. Look, honey,” Mrs. Simpson said to her husband. “I just love the way English aristocrats live. I plan to have a place like this myself someday.”
    “I don’t know where you’re going to put it in Baltimore,” Mr. Simpson said, giving me a wink.
    “Who said anything about Baltimore,” she replied.
    The car came to a stop under a portico, and footmen in smart gold-and-black livery came running to open the door. Mrs. Simpson made sure she got out first. As I climbed out after her a diminutive figure in an exquisitely cut Parisian gown appeared at the top of steps and rushed toward us, arms open.
    “Wallis, you came. How lovely.”
    “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, honey,” Mrs. Simpson said, kissing her an inch from her cheek. “Tell me, is a certain royal person going to attend as you promised?”
    “The Prince of Wales? Of course. He never misses one of my parties. You’ll adore him, Wallis.”
    “Will I?” She gave an enigmatic smile.
    Our hostess turned her charming smile to me. “And you must be Georgiana. I met your father in Monte Carlo. What a delightful man. We were so sorry when he died. Has your season been fun? No proposals yet, I hear. Or at least none that you’ve accepted. Never mind. There’s always tonight. Come along in out of the cold. Tea is being served in the long drawing room.”
    I realized one wasn’t required to speak much when Lady Merriman was around. We were escorted into the house, where servants took our overcoats and luggage. Then Lady Merriman ushered us in through a doorway to our right. It was a large comfortable sitting room with groups of sofas and armchairs and in the middle a roaring fire blazed in a big marble fireplace. The room was amazingly warm for one who has grown up in a Scottish castle and I realized that they must have had central heating installed. No fireplace could heat that well. An elegant company was assembled, many of them standing around the fireplace. I recognized several faces from glossy magazines and at the center of the liveliest group was my cousin, the Prince of Wales.
    Lady Merriman stepped into the throng. “Everyone, I want you to meet our latest arrivals, Lady Georgiana Rannoch and Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, old chums from America.”
    My cousin David’s face lit up. “What ho, Georgie.” He held out his hand to me.
    I took it and bobbed the required curtsy. “Hello, sir.” (One always has to call royals
sir
and
ma’am
, even if they are cousins.)
    “So you’re out in society, are you?” he said, still beaming at me. “Splendid. Glad to see you all grown up and looking so pretty.”
    David had always been kind. I was sure I didn’t look pretty compared to all those Chanel outfits and cashmeres I could see in that crowd.
    Mrs. Simpson gave an annoyed little cough. The Prince of Wales turned his attention to her. “How do you do. Welcome to England.”
    Mrs. Simpson dropped a gorgeous curtsy. “I can’t tell you how I’ve