‘Who is the Duke of Wellington? Is that another oops?’
‘Yes, it is. You’ll find out in a year or so though.’
‘And these boots – ladies wear them as
well as men?’ I could see Lucian wrestling with what he knew of twenty first century clothing – cashmere yoga wear, sports bras and wellies. It was obviously too much for his imagination. ‘You must not stand and stare at gentlemen’s outfitters.’ I was wheeled firmly around the corner and down the hill.
He proved just as disobliging when it came to pointing out the famous St James’s clubs to me. I knew we would be passing White’s, Brooke’s and Boodles – they were still there and I had seen them in my time – but I was swept past with no opportunity to stare back at the gentlemen inside ogling the passing throng through their quizzing glasses.
St James’s Palace at the foot of the hill looked just as I remembered it – although the traffic sweeping around the corner from Pall Mall and turning up St James’s Street was calmer than the usual stream of cars and taxis and buses and the red Tudor brick was a lot dirtier. Hundreds of years of coal fires and no modern restoration techniques, I supposed.
‘Lucian, please stop – it is Lock’s the hatters.’ I had once walked down St James’s to look at them, and the wine merchants, Berry Brothers and Rudd, almost next door, just where they were then…now…when… I was getting confused. I took a deep breath. ‘This shop is still just here in my time. And Berry Brothers as well. I bought my father a special bottle of claret in there for his birthday last year. Can’t we – ’
‘No.’ Lucian checked the traffic and stepped out into the road.
‘Yes.’ I dug my heels in and that probably saved our lives as a closed carriage pulled by a team of two horses swept down St James’s Street, swerved round the corner flat-out and hurtled straight towards us.
Lucian twisted, flung himself across me and took the blow as the shoulder of the lead horse hit us. If I hadn’t stopped to try and look at the shops they would have gone straight over us, as it was we landed on the kerb in a confused flurry of hooves and limbs and flying parasol.
‘Ough.’ I tried to sit up but Lucian was across my legs, face down and, apparently unconscious. ‘Lucian?’ I got a hand free and fumbled for his neck to try and find a pulse and there, thankfully, it was, hammering away beneath the thin kid of my gloves. I still couldn’t sit up and I daren’t just roll him off in case his spine was damaged. Then the noise around us resolved itself into screams and shouts and running feet and something bulky fell to the ground beside me as I was gathered into a smothering, squashy embrace.
It was like being hugged by a velvet-covered sofa. One with prehensile limbs and about four hands.
‘Get your hands off me, you.. you…’ I twisted my head to see who I was going to knee in the groin once I got vertical. ‘You… Your Royal Highness.’ I was being expertly groped by Prince George, soon to be Prince Regent and eventually, King George IV.
At which point the cavalry arrived. Or, rather two of the guardsmen from in front of the palace. I suspect they were motivated more by the need to extract the heir to the throne from whatever situation he had got himself into this time, than from any concern for either my virtue or Lucian’s health, but they were welcome nevertheless.
‘Allow us to assist, Your Royal Highness… if you will just take my arm, sir.’ They hauled him to his feet, chins and belly quivering, lavish velvet coat askew, cheeks flushed, corset creaking. Not a pretty sight.
Two sensible young men were easing Lucian over onto his back, supporting his head in a way that made me think they had dealt with casualties before, which was confirmed when one of them offered me his hand. ‘Lieutenant Brookfield, ma’am. Are you able to rise, or shall I carry you into Berry Brother’s shop?’
‘Nothing is broken, Lieutenant, thank you.’ I allowed myself to be assisted to my feet with rather more grace than the Prince had exhibited, just as Lucian sat up, said something under his breath that made the other young man wince in sympathy, and looked at me.
‘Are you all right?’ we said in unison.
‘Perfectly. You?’
‘Perfectly.’ He got to his feet while our two allies held back the crowd that had gathered. ‘If someone would be so good as to hail a hackney carriage – ’
Something glossy and black with a crest on its door drew up to the kerb and a groom jumped down, all crimson livery and gold lace and cockades. ‘His Royal Highness’s compliments, my lord, and please to allow us to drive you and the lady to your residences, unless you wish to come into the palace and have the doctor summoned. There is one on the premises.’
‘Please convey our thanks to Prince George. If you could take us to Albany, I would be most grateful.’
He helped me in, both of us wincing and muttering as our bruises and scrapes came to life. The door closed with an expensive click as we settled onto deep, plum-coloured upholstery and we set off, leaving behind us a disappointed crowd with nothing to gawk at.
‘Tell me the truth – are you hurt? We can go directly to my doctor, or we can send for him once we arrive home.’ Lucian shifted on the seat to look at me better.
‘I have collected more bruises and a grazed knee. I’ll be sore tomorrow, but that’s all. No need for a doctor. Oh yes, and I’ve been groped by royalty, the fat old goat.’
‘He is only forty five,’ Lucian said.
‘Old enough to know better.’
‘Oh, I agree.’ He looked grim. ‘Anyone else and it would have been my pleasure to black his eye for you. Unfortunately – ’
‘One cannot punch the heir to the throne, I know. What on earth was he doing there?’
‘Sampling the claret in Berry Brothers’ cellars, I suspect, and recruiting his strength before the sermon.’ Lucian was looking grimmer than the bad manners of his next king would justify.