Aubrey darted behind a screen to change as the prince was whisked away by the generals, colonels and other nabobs who had congregated, aware of the significance of the moment.
Aubrey’s head popped up and down as he grappled with trousers and boots, providing a series of glimpses of the hullaballoo as he bent and straightened, so that Bertie’s progress stuttered along, shuffling across the room only to become bogged at the door by a crowd that was managing the difficult task of cheering solemnly.
A familiar figure detached himself from the flotilla around the ex-prince and strode toward them, moustache a-bristle. ‘Fitzwilliam?’ General Apsley said. ‘You’re up and about? Good. Planning meeting in the conference room on the ground floor. Five minutes.’