"Then it was off to school when I was eight. That was all Father's doing. You know the old story: If it was good enough for him... God, how I hated it there." The Prince sighed heavily, attempting to shrug off the memory as if he were having a bad LSD flashback. "Still, I don't suppose it was his fault, really. After all, he did have his own difficult childhood to contend with."

He was trying to put on a good face, but Daisy wasn't having any of that. Besides, she could clearly see Sturgess, who was standing the requisite three paces to the rear, begin to roll his eyes.

"Your father sounds like the ultimate doctor's wife to me," she put in, helping herself to just a little bit more of that lovely champagne. She wasn't usually much of a drinker, but while she was imbibing this stuff, she didn't seem to notice the throbbing in her ankle. So, you could say, that it was actually keeping her on her feet. That is, of course, providing that it didn't knock her on her butt again.

"The investiture-not to put too fine a point on it-was a bitch. One might imagine it to be a moving experience, but one would be quite wrong. Why, you should have heard the razzing I took about it at school. 'Saw you on the telly the other day with your mum, Charles. Lovely hat you had on. Looked quite a bit like my aunt, Hermione. Was that real ermine on the collar of your dress, then? Must have killed an awful lot of poor defenseless animals for that one.' Mind you, this was back at the end of the sixties, everyone's consciousness was being raised-love and equality for your fellow animal and all of that. Of course, they didn't actually say all of those things directly to my face, but I could hear them. At any rate, my therapist says-considering what my life has been like so far-that it is truly amazing, but that I don't seem to be suffering from paranoia in the least."

"You know, when I was really small, I suffered from knocked knees; had to go around wearing these dreadful orthopedic shoes. It was something of a relief, really, when my sister Anne came along and proved to be quite a good rider and sailor. Took a bit of the pressure off. But then, of course, it did become a smidgen old quite fast, Father always going on in that obnoxiously hearty way that he has-perhaps while he was plugging a pigeon over the palace or something-'Why can't you be more like your sister, Charles?' One tries to exercise patience, but it can be tiresome."

"Bringing girls home was never easy."

Daisy's ears pricked up at that.

"It is difficult, always having to keep a detective with one. Although," he hastily added, "I must say, that Sturgess is, by far, the very best that I have ever had. Still, there is a loneliness that is peculiar to an existence that must always be lived out in the presence of other people. I find that I am never so alone as when I am in a crowd. The handful of times that I have ever been permitted to be completely and physically alone have proven to be the few times that I have ever felt remotely at home in this body. Or as if it even belonged to me."

"Bad at maths; loved history-well, hardly surprising, that." The Royal face lit up here at the memory. "And astonishingly good at charades and playing dress-up."

"I sometimes think that, were it not for the fact that I was groomed to become a human Switzerland, I might have become something of an adventurer. I jumped out of a plane once; and I loved to fly. But I had to give all of that up. You see, it took all of the fun out of it, always feeling as though I should be worrying more about what I was doing, because whenever I was doing anything, there were always at least a couple of million people worrying about what I might be doing." The Prince gave a puzzled frown of his own. "If you take my proper meaning."

He stole a peek at his watch and then crisply shot his cuff, discreetly re-covering it. My, I have been nattering on, he thought to himself. Out loud, he said, "Oh sure, there are other family members that I could go on about. My grandmother, for instance, is an absolute honey." His face clouded. "Although, one does find oneself wishing that she wouldn't drink quite so often or puff on those cigars." But then the resilient smile made a comeback. "Still, she is nearly one hundred, so perhaps she knows something that the rest of us don't."

"So, when one gets right down to it, those are the nuts and bolts of the whole affair: Father could be a trifle chilly, while Mother was just a wee bit preoccupied."

Daisy, who had remained inordinately silent during this Monarch Notes version of the princely bio, had been ingesting all of this with just a modicum of salt. It didn't do to pass judgment without first hearing both sides of a story or, at the very least, observing all of the principals firsthand. Besides, she held her own preconceived notions concerning the functioning of dysfunctional families.

Biology was not destiny and, as far as she was concerned, people could not be preprogrammed in, say, the same way that a computer could be. Despite the almost overwhelming evidence to the contrary-what with the apparently Rachel-like effects of alcohol on her own system and her aberrant attraction to all things septic-she believed that a particular set of DNA or, for that matter, the circumstances of a person's individual upbringing (both familial and societal), merely predisposed one to be a certain way. But a propensity in one direction was not the same as an actuality, hence the scientific distinction between potential energy and kinetic energy.

Daisy herself could be said to be a classic case of unexpressed potential energy.

So, as anybody with half a brain could clearly see-was how the mental debate that was going on in Daisy's slightly pickled brain wound down-the combined double whammy of nature and nurture necessitated nothing.

And, in the best of all possible worlds-one without twisted ankles or expensive champagne-she might have voiced all of this far more cogently and graciously to the Future King of England, had it not been for her damned furry tongue. What she came out with instead, in a sentence eerily reminiscent of Bonita, sounded more like: "Even Jack the Ripper's mother was not completely to blame."

Then she raised her hand delicately to her mouth and, quite demurely, hiccupped up some Perrier Jouet. As she did so, she caught sight of the time. "Gotta run."

Her choice of words was uncharacteristically inaccurate, but they served their purpose in extricating her from the Royal presence, returning her to Pacqui's side, and freeing her to face the night.

The British Monarchy-for the time being, at least-was none the worse for wear.

10.

In the cab, Pacqui commented on the oddness-and odds-of the fact that he hadn't run into Daisy all evening. "It was truly as though we were living in parallel universes. But," he added, laughing at his own joke, "the honor was all surely in the opportunity of being permitted to be driving Miss Daisy."

A most preoccupied Miss Daisy failed to respond.

"I wish that the evening did not have to end," Pacqui lamented a short while later, scampering ahead to open the door of the Hotel Russell for his lurching companion. "Perhaps," he asked, hopefully, eyeing the sneaker, "you might be so kind as to consider going for a jog with me tomorrow morning?"

Briefly recalled to reality, Daisy ruefully glared down at the other foot, the ankle still visibly swollen beneath the sock. "How about a brief stroll through Hyde Park instead?"

11.

"Find me the woman who was wearing the trainer with the pink laces!"

"An' when I find her fer ya, Sir?"

"There is a message that I should like for you to give her for me. Bring me some writing paper and a pen."

The necessary materials having been produced, the Prince set about composing his missive. Periodically, he could be seen to be chewing on the top of the pen. And, providing background entertainment, he could be distinctly heard to be muttering throughout.

"Ask her... ask her... Oh, dear God! Do you think she could possibly be married? Did not see a ring, but then, whoever knows? How to circumnavigate that sticky wicket. Hmm... A guest! Invite her to bring the trusty old guest! If she brings a husband, then my goose will definitely be cooked, as Father is so fond of saying. But then, I suppose we could always... No, no, must not purchase trouble. We shall cross that drawbridge if and when our carriage delivers us there... Done! What do you think?"

Sturgess read in silence for a moment, finally answering with a certain degree of pride. "I do believe that ya have a wee touch o' the Robert Burns in yer soul, Sir." Then he thought again of the highly irregular young woman that they had encountered that evening, and for whom the letter was intended. "But are ya quite certain in yer mind, Sir, that ya do not want ta sleep on it fer a coupla nights? Perhaps, it would be wiser ta... shall I send fer Teddy, then?"

"Blast Teddy!" There was a wild gleam in the Prince's eye. "Full steam ahead!"

12.

As Sturgess exited the Royal bedchamber, gently shutting the door behind him, he determined to put the Master of the Household onto the task of running Daisy Sills to earth.

Sturgess's own official responsibilities were quite sufficient to occupy all of his time, what with always having to attend to the Prince's needs, not to mention the personal responsibility he felt about keeping His Highness out of trouble.

Besides, it was high time that the Master did something to earn his keep.

13.

The Master of the Household, not used to being roused out of a sound sleep at four o'clock in the morning with a Royal request, was grumpy nonetheless. Replacing the receiver with a clatter that was loud enough to wake his equally grouchy wife, he grumbled aloud something to the effect that Sturgess had, yet again, overstepped his bounds. Not only that, but the man was clearly barmy. For, as anyone with half a grasp of palace protocol could tell you, it was the proper duty of the Chief of Palace Security to run human beings to earth, not the Master of the Household. When the Master arose, in an ungodly short period of time, he would be passing the champagne bucket in that general direction.

"Damned Scots," the Master muttered, punching his pillow-as opposed to, say, his wife, who had an unfortunate talent for always managing to punch back even harder. "Share a stinking Parliament with them, and they bloody well behave as though they thought that it was them what owned you."

14.

Daisy was dreaming about Determinism.

The inevitability of events? the Dream Daisy pondered. Day following night? Who needed it?

There was a man singing something. And the sounds seemed to be coming from outside.

Entering through the connecting door, Bonita crossed to the window by the bed, where she benevolently proceeded to raise the window itself without drawing the blinds-the better to hear what the man was singing without actually allowing in any invasions of sunlight.

"'Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do...'" This lyrical, if somewhat strident, Pakistani rendition came wafting in through the crack.

Bonita, peeking through a gap in the drapery, beheld the form of Pacqui, who was joyously serenading from the pavement below.

"My, we were a busy little beaver last night, weren't we?" she enquired of the nearly comatose form beneath the sheets. Her hand hovered threateningly close to the cord that hung beside the sash. "Shall we just draw these nasty old drapes, then?"

Daisy, ungluing her lids, fixed her friend and companion with one very bloodshot eye. "Don't even think about it," she glowered.

"And how are we feeling today?" Bonita seated herself on the edge of the bed. "Fresh as a dai-"

"Oh, put a sock on it," came the uncharitable reply, as Daisy clutched onto her head with both hands as if, somehow, were she to hold on tightly enough, she might be able to prevent the whole thing from splitting apart.

A knock came at the door, adding mental insult to mental injury, and Bonita accepted the proffered item from a green-liveried porter. She examined the stunningly red crest of the Royal Family, as it appeared on the most impressive and official Buckingham Palace stationery, before relinquishing it to a suddenly much more conscious Daisy. "What did you get up to?"

Daisy tore at the seal on the creamy envelope and read the following in silence: Dear Miss Sills, How lovely it was for me to make your acquaintance last evening. I am hoping that the encounter was not entirely unpleasant for you, and that I will be successful in persuading you to repeat the event. That is to say, not the exact same embassy party-for, they do tire one so; and besides which, even those who are blessed with the staunchest of constitutions at times can grow weary of satay. But, perhaps that is neither here nor there. Rather, I had in mind the notion of pursuing our acquaintance at some other, as yet to be specified, event.

In the not too distant future, I shall be playing in a polo match at Smith's Lawn. Perhaps, if the idea does not seem too tedious to you, you might consider coming to watch me compete? Or, conversely, if that does not suit, perhaps you might do me the honour of accompanying me to the races at Ascot in a few weeks' time?

I look forward with eagerness to hearing from you. You can reach me at any time at the above address. Just send your messenger around.

Sincerely,

Richard Blake

or, if you prefer it,

Charley

P.S. Oh, by the way: Should you feel the need to bring a guest along with you, I would understand completely. All appropriate accommodations would, of course, be provided.

"I think that I've just been invited out on a date with the Prince of Wales," a stunned Daisy commented, passing the pages back for Bonita's perusal. "And I'm taking you with me."

Bonita was puzzled. "But why does he call you 'Sills'?"