Her heart jumped a beat as she nonchalantly put her notebook back into her bag.
‘I had things to finish before leaving.’ She tapped a random folder on her desk before collecting her jacket from the coat stand.
‘But you shouldn’t be in the offices at this time of night on your own.’
Breezily, she shoved an arm into her jacket sleeve. ‘The coronation won’t organize itself,’ she said, smiling sweetly. Niceness was the way to get out of this, she reasoned. Niceness, dedication to work, and perhaps a little light flirtation. It wouldn’t hurt to have Sinclair on her side. He might even be helpful.
Sinclair followed her back to her desk. ‘But people might think you’re up to no good. Every year the palace boots out staff for stealing royal memorabilia.’
‘Stealing?’ Of all the things she expected – poking around for news stories, to name but one – stealing was not among them. ‘What on earth would I do with an original Rembrandt? Even the dodgiest of dealers would know where I’d found it.’ Her laugh faltered as she watched his eyes crease with curiosity, and she wondered if her quip were a little too knowing for a coronation assistant.
‘It’s more like silver spoons and royal photographs than actual art, but anything from cigarette lighters to medals vanish from time to time. The butlers are told to keep an eye out, so it’s safest not to be the last to leave.’
‘What are you doing here so late, then?’ she teased. ‘Collecting royal china to sell on the black market?’
‘Nothing as thrilling. I had to attend a state banquet.’
Puzzled, she looked at him. ‘I thought we were here to organize the coronation. Can I expect an invitation to a banquet, too?’
He laughed. ‘Hardly. I was there as a diplomatic aide,’ and he added with less enthusiasm, ‘for my translation skills.’
‘Do you speak another language?’
‘Well, a few, actually.’ He paused, tucking his hands into his pockets as if it weren’t important, but then added, ‘Eight reasonably well, and then there are several where I can get by. This evening was a getting-by one.’
‘Eight! Wow, that’s quite something.’ She was sure he blushedbeneath his suntanned skin. ‘And modest, too. How British of you! What language were you translating tonight?’
‘Swahili. I was lucky it was the right dialect or I might have caused a serious diplomatic situation.’
He made a small laugh, and she relaxed. Evidently he didn’t seriously suspect her of anything. Thank goodness he had more of a sense of humour than she’d thought. And quirkily, he was a polyglot, too. Did that make him an oddball, someone who didn’t quite fit in, someone who could help her?
As she went back to organizing her papers, she took the conversation on to more everyday subjects. ‘I’m surprised they don’t send you abroad with all those languages.’
‘I wish they would! I’ve been based in London far too long.’ He heaved a sigh as he collected his briefcase from one of the cordoned-off desks on the far side of the room.
‘Why’s that?’
‘They need my linguistic skills for postwar diplomacy. Some days I think my languages are more of a curse, especially now that they have me working for the coronation. They promised me Rome, for heaven’s sake. I should be sitting beside the Trevi Fountain, enjoying the sunshine.’
‘That sounds a lot better than being stuck here.’ Then she lowered her voice to say, ‘It’s like being back in the eighteenth century.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You never attended my boarding school. That was akin to the Middle Ages. I ran away to my grandmother’s house once, and thankfully my parents saw sense after that.’
She laughed, charmed, but then, to her annoyance, he stopped by her desk, waiting for her to leave, and she had no choice but to join him. Her plan to sneak into the minister’s office would have to be jettisoned.
The corridors were quiet, the night staff silently getting on with their work. The first chefs and maids would start to arrive at three or four, and the whole machine would be back in action by six, like a great aging galleon forever ploughing forward through the ocean.
Sinclair smiled at her as they headed out of the staff door onto thestreet. ‘You really are very different from British girls, you know, especially the ones here in Buckingham Palace.’
Miranda thought of her dull married friends in New York. ‘I’m a bit of an oddity in New York, too.’
‘What was your old job like?’ Sinclair asked as they fell into step leaving the palace and walked towards the Underground station. ‘Why did you leave?’
Miranda already had her story prepared. ‘It was a paper company in Manhattan – office paper and stationery. My boss had to fire a few people, so he got rid of the women.’ She let out an exasperated groan.
‘I’m surprised he didn’t want you to stay. You’re obviously a keen worker.’
‘The trouble is that I’m not as good at being subservient. I can’t stay in my place and be grateful.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I’m no good at buying ties and making coffee.’
