Good-natured wave.

Edward was hoping that there would be Yorkshire pudding with the birthday supper afterwards. A tiny frown crept over his features, when he thought that the overwhelming worldwide preoccupation with heart-healthy eating might prevent such a glorious eventuality. But he shrugged all such nasty notions aside.

Wistful wave.

Anne thought ruefully how her time could definitely be better utilized with riding or working on one of her many charitable missions instead. Definitely the last year.

Slightly tozzled wave.

Princess Margaret was wondering what the hell she was doing there, when she'd much rather be back at Kensington Palace. Why did Mother always have to insist that she be there for Lizzie's parties? It might be nice to stay at home every now and again. And it wasn't as though anyone ever made such a great do about it when it was her turn.

Much more tozzled wave.

The Queen Mother was thinking how simply lovely it was to have children.

Grim wave.

The Duke of Edinburgh was mentally figuring out just exactly how much poison it would require to kill that bagpiper. Would a similar quantity prove sufficient to take care of the corgis as well? And, most important of all, could the crimes ever be traced, beyond the shadow of a doubt, to him?

Tired-but pretending not to be and with determined cheerfulness-wave.

Couldn't they ever just get on with it, the Queen thought.

Absentee wave.

Where the devil was Charles?

Come to that, nobody could recall having seen him for days.

Just what the devil was he getting himself up to?

6.

In the stands, women carrying racing cards were seen to come and go; not one of them gave a flying fig about Michelangelo.

It was the second of the four days in late June set aside for the Royal Ascot Week Race Meeting in Berkshire, signifying the beginning of the English summer social season, and the Prince of Wales could be seen to be traveling incognito. In addition to the expected top hat, lengthy morning coat, and cane, he was also sporting a full set of phony whiskers. Combined with the fact that the round sunglasses that he wore managed to camouflage the true color of his eyes, the entire effect of the costume went over as being just a teensy bit Lincoln-esque.

At his side, and doing her part to uphold the traditional dress of the lady spectator at Ascot, Miss Silverman was wearing the requisite pumps-amazing how much spectating was going on in her life all of a sudden. The pumps matched the salmon-and-white summer frock that, in turn, matched nicely with the wide-brimmed hat that-Daisy had learned much to her horror the day before-was de rigueur for the fashionable at the Race Meeting.

An emergency call to Bonita back in London on the previous evening had elicited the domino effect of a call from Miss Chance to the lovely people at Harrods, thus proving to the staff there that the Americans could serve just as effectively as tormentors over the wire as they could in person. (Equally amazing to Daisy was the speed with which accessories were becoming necessities; if Charley looked like Abe, then she was beginning to feel like a dwarfish Barbie.) In addition to Bonita, Sturgess had remained in London as well. By using the persuasive argument that provided he kept his disguise on in all public places he would be safe, Charles had managed to prevail upon his protector to stay behind for once. For the first time in years, then, the Prince was out on a date with a woman whom he had not known practically since pram days, and there was not a chaperone in sight.

"God, I hate horse racing. Always was more of Anne's thing, really."

"Why are we here then?" was Daisy's question, but the Prince's mind could only seem to operate on a single track at the moment.

"And the absolute utmost in dreadfulness is the Royal Windsor Horse Show in May. Fortunate you," he added, giving her hand a patronizing pat, as though she were a child who had barely and obliviously escaped a fate worse than boarding school, "you just missed that one. They hold these awful Gymkhana Championships and Father insists on participating in the National Carriage Driving Competition. It always puts him in such a foul mood when he loses."

Prompted by the bemused expression on Daisy's face, he quickly explained just what exactly the sport of National Carriage Driving entailed.

"I hate to play the philistine," she responded, her stupefaction having dissipated not one iota, "but I just don't get it. What's the point?"

The stark expression on the Prince's face indicated that, clearly, Honest Abe had never been quite able to fathom it all either.

As the day wore on, Charles, having apparently forgotten all about his disguise, proceeded to proudly introduce Daisy to any and every passing lord and dignitary who, for their part, cast many a startled backward glance upon the unusual pairing.

Daisy was fast learning that whom you knew was far more important, in this world, than what you knew. For example, in doing her research, prior to attending Ascot-and armed with the knowledge, gleaned from the Times, that a visiting legation from the relatively new country of Butterundi would, in all probability, be in attendance-she had boned up on the politics of that minuscule protectorate and its efforts to gain a toehold in the lucrative field of exportation of palm products. Feeling confident that her recent acquaintance with the shipping methods employed for the palm items would stand her in fine conversational stead with the best of them, imagine then her consternation when upon being presented to the Marquis of Butterundi, he proved to be far more interested in learning if-being from the U.S.-she were a personal friend of Kevin Costner.

As yet undaunted, however, Daisy was never one to feel that any information, acquired when her two hands were firmly wrapped around a book, was ever a total waste. While doing her digging at the British Museum on the topic of Butterundi, she had also taken the time to sift through some material on the Royal Family. True, like all of her fellow countrymen, she had preconceived notions about the Royals, but this was the Real Thing. And the People magazine version would, quite simply, no longer do.

And, as Charles introduced her to a seemingly endless stream of the nobility, she was glad of the reading she had done. She was easily able to identify Princess Michael of Kent. And Charley's aunt, while she looked as though she could use a few cups of coffee perhaps, was also a snap. But as the hours ticked by, and with the titles still flying fast and furious, her head began to swim.

"The Earl of Essexshire," the bearded Prince went on. "The Duchess of Duncansville. Oh, and look," and here he pointed in what some might say was a rather rude sort of way, "there's the Laird of Loch Labian. Huh. Rather a nerve, calling himself that. Never does anything for those poor blighters anyway. One would think he should be too busy to venture so far from home."

Daisy felt as though she had accidentally stumbled into Warp World. Out loud, she said, "What does that mean, the Laird of Loch Labian? I keep getting this strange feeling, like I should be asking somebody 'What's the frequency, Dan?'"

But the Prince had become distracted by the flight of some speckled bird, soaring over their heads. "And there's Charon," he said, his still upward tilted chin indicating a rather dour looking little man in one of the upper boxes. "Funny, I never noticed him there yesterday."

"Who?" There really were so many stupid things to know here.

"His official title is that of Her Majesty's Representative at Ascot. He is the man who arbitrarily controls who can and cannot enter the Royal enclosure."

"Charming." Daisy squinted into the sun. "Is that your mother up there?"

The Prince looked at her, an enormously contented smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "How do you and Miss Chance feel about Scotland?"

It might have given Daisy more than a moment's troubled pause, had she had time to spare a thought for the fact that the Star of David had now apparently taken up permanent residency beneath the front of any garment she happened to be wearing. But she'd had that nasty hat dilemma to contend with of late and, besides, it was tough thinking ethnic when the horses were running. She might not be conscious of it, but she had evidently made the decision to let sleeping religions lie.

She turned her head to meet another Earl, smile at yet more Duchesses, become totally confused by her very first Laird.

She was too busy talking with crowds to be bothered much about her virtue.

Daisy Silverman was now walking with kings.

And one could only pray that she wasn't losing the common touch.

The Queen was viewing the proceedings through her binoculars. Having failed to attend the first day at Ascot due to a beastly head cold, probably acquired during the celebration of her Official Birthday, she had pooh-poohed her personal physician's advice that she spend another day cooped up in bed. She could give a fine fig for the fashionable aspect of the Race Meeting, but she would be damned if she would miss viewing the horses.

Still, it was hard that the racing couldn't be constant. She felt the need to keep her spyglass glued to her face even between the runs, in order to avoid the boredom of being drawn into unnecessary conversation with the motley crew that her representative had chosen to admit to the box that year. If she could just maintain the pretense of being so wrapped up in anticipation of the next event on the field that she simply could not bear to tear her eyes away, perhaps none of them would try to talk to her.

But try as she might, even that normally indefatigable horse watcher could not keep her eyes peeled on an empty course for very long. Inevitably, the spyglass moved.

"Good God!" she exclaimed, not conscious of the fact that she had uttered the words out loud.

Her Majesty shifted the binoculars downward, peering out over the top as if in an attempt to see something better. She wiped furiously at her cold, damp nose with a linen handkerchief that bore her crest. Unsatisfied with what she had seen, she quickly replaced the glasses for a second look, only to find that her eyes had not deceived her the first time.

A mother would know those ears anywhere.

What in the world was Charles doing with that ridiculous false beard on? Why, along with that nose of his, it made him look downright Semitic, like he could be a rabbi or some other awful thing.

And who was that woman with whom he was so thoroughly engaged in conversation? The Queen had never seen her before.

Peer, wipe. Peer, wipe.

Who was This One?

She was a tiny little thing, so small that one would hardly deign to notice her, were it not for the fact that the heir to the British throne was busily presenting her to anybody who would pay even the slightest attention.

Practical haircut; strong teeth when she smiled, which was often; that nose looked suspiciously Semitic, too... But, no, surely even Charles would not go that far. Didn't look to be much of a breeder, thank God; an acceptable, but completely unostentatious dresser. Well, the Queen conceded grudgingly, one had to respect that. This One, except for the strength of that smile, did not impress as being at all like The Other One.

The Queen suddenly found herself clutching onto the spyglass with a vise-like grip.

7.

It took the castle switchboard a good five minutes hunting, but they were finally able to patch the call through to the Prince's special friend in the guest suite at Windsor, where he had granted her lodging unbeknownst to his mother.

"Hello?"

"Other people are beginning to watch now. You must learn to be more careful." Click.

Gee, for such a cute little guy, Pacqui sure was going in for this menacing stuff in an awfully big way.

July

1.

From "The Court Circular", the Times: ... and, in spite of the fact that the inclement weather forecast, predicted for that region, shows no appreciable signs of changing in the near future, select members of the Royal Family will be making the annual pilgrimage to Edinburgh, Scotland. The Queen, Prince Philip, and the Queen Mother are all expected to be in that notoriously wet city for the entire first week in July, conducting business as usual from the Queen's official residence, the Palace of Holyroodhouse. In a most unusual turn of events, Prince Charles is rumoured to also have plans of being in residency there...

2.

As few as twenty-four hours previously, there had been absolute strangers tramping about in Her Majesty's Scottish digs.

Open daily to the general public, for a modest admission fee, Holyrood was closed during all Royal visits. The house staff, having arrived the evening before in order to commence preparations, had removed all cigarette butts from around the entryways, every guide brochure that they could find (some of which turned up in the most startling of places), and one particularly persistent tiny set of chocolate prints from the braided cord of a fragile pair of tartan draperies dating back to the time when the palace was inhabited by Mary, Queen of Scots. Yes, an optimist might say that the nearly 500-year-old edifice had been exorcised of all evidence of alien intrusion.

Nonetheless, there was one American who, having traveled for ten hours from London by train, was so totally enthralled with the 150-foot-long Picture Gallery, that it would prove difficult to separate her from it; and one very tenacious Scot, with his own agenda, who had every intention of holding a war council there.

"She must always be addressed as Your Majesty, never Your Highness," was Sturgess's advice, an item that he had mentioned to Bonita, oh, perhaps a good half-dozen times already, as he hustled to remain in her wake as she traversed the length of the gallery. It truly was amazing to him how brisk the stride was on this relatively Lilliputian being. "You must see to it that your charge is cognizant of that fact, Miss Chance, and that she behaves accordingly and appropriately."

"People are themselves. Right from wrong. Certain point? On your own." She squinted up at the vast melancholy face of a purportedly Scottish monarch. "Huh. These are really all fakes? Or are you pulling the leg just to see what it feels like?"

Sturgess reddened. "I assure you, Madam, that I would never presume to make such a ridiculous thing up. And certainly not for such a purpose." He indicated the long line of portraits and continued in the tour guide tone of one who had already covered this ground many times.

"What you see before you is a prime example of Scots humor. The nearly ninety oil portraits of Scottish monarchs ranged here were all actually painted by the same Dutchman. They were mass-produced by him-pumped out, you might say-at the rate of over one per week. A large portion of them is, in fact, fictitious-"

"Don't get it at all. What's so funny about bad art? Foolish him to waste a year doing this in the first place. More fool, you folks, to hang the art and not the artist." She shook her head. "Don't believe it. Never held with capital punishment, even for bad art." She continued her fast-paced patrol of the gallery. "Can't believe you'd let it hang here for so long. Like any joke: okay, maybe mildly amusing the first time, ha-ha. But letting it hang for generations? For three centuries?" She shook her head, and a huge hank of hair unfurled from the precarious topknot. "Can't think what you were thinking of, thank God. All must be out of what's left of your minds!"

"Be that as it may, Miss Chance," Sturgess sought to yank the conversational flow back to the pressing matter at hand, "someone must speak with Miss Sills."

Sturgess had originally determined to pull Daisy aside for another informal tutorial, in this instance regarding the proper form of address when speaking with the Ruling Monarch. He had been aimlessly pacing about the rooms of Holyrood, crossing his fingers that, this time, the talking-to would take, when he had fortuitously stumbled upon the gallery-stalking form of Miss Chance. Being greatly worried about the unpredictability of Daisy's behavior upon being presented to the Queen, he hoped to find in Daisy's traveling companion a co-conspirator to join in the mission of bringing Daisy to heel in the delicate matter of court protocol.

Bonita, keenly attentive to the frayed note of desperation that had crept into the normally stalwart valet's voice, tore her gaze from the latest in the long line of phony Scottish monarchs, and fixed it firmly on him instead. Bewildered by what she saw, she moved closer to him for a better view. Huh. He didn't come across today as being as obnoxiously tall as he usually did.

Feeling sympathetic, she shrugged a peace offering. "What help?"

For his part, Sturgess thought that the wee American might be just barely tolerable, were it not for the aromatic halo of salt and vinegar potato crisps that was orbiting around her.

"Perhaps, it would be best if you were the one to speak with her. She cannot very well address her as 'Lizzie.' Surely, even you must realize-"

Bonita snorted. "What does this body look like to you-a turnip?"