Pont Street Diplomatic

'My wife's people have never quite forgiven you for the Battle of Maldon, Mr Ambassador.'

The diplomat smiled as diplomats are trained to do without effort, but no effort was needed here, for there was a definite twinkle in the speaker's voice.

'That would be ... in the year 991, I believe,' he answered the twinkle.

''Fraid so. Awfully long memories my wife's family have; makes my life a positive trial at times.'

'And do they blame me personally, or my country?'

'I suppose they blame the Vikings,' the speaker said after a thoughtful pause.

'They are probably wise to do so,' said his host, 'but please forward my regret that while I am proud to represent His Majesty King Frederick IX and his government, I have no remit to explain or defend the actions of Sven Forkbeard.'

'What a pity; I had my petition already written out.'

A female and very feminine voice interrupted these somewhat bizarre diplomatic negotiations: 'Mr Ambassador, allow me to apologise for my husband. I have no idea what he was pestering you about, but pestering is his forte and as he has been out of my supervisory sight for all of five minutes, I think I can safely say he has moved in to full pestering mode. I do hope it wasn't about the canapés. He's quite obsessed with geometric patterns on plates of canapés, poor lamb. Never eats them, just likes the shapes. He's probably quite mad and it's surprising we still get invited to embassy receptions.'

The ambassador turned to the elegant, red-haired woman, who had quietly positioned herself at her husband's side with the smoothness of a closing Rolls-Royce door without the accompanying thunderous click. He proffered a hand in greeting, enhanced with a low, dignified bow.

'The exquisite Lady Amanda to the rescue, I presume.'

'Rescues gallantly and freely performed,' said the woman, performing a half-bob, quarter-curtsey with a smile and a tilt of her heart-shaped face. 'I assume you do need rescuing from my husband? Most people do after two or three minutes and I've had years of experience at it. I could even provide references and probably testimonials.'

The ambassador allowed himself a deep-throated chuckle.

'I have not yet been formally introduced to this gentleman, although of course I know who he is, and I am confident I am in no need of rescue.'

'Well, if you are absolutely sure,' said the woman, 'allow me to introduce Mr Albert Campion, who looks more harmless than he is but is, I suppose, a gentleman if you are willing to stretch a point.'

The tall, thin man with the pale-straw hair beamed from behind large, horn-rimmed glasses and offered an outstretched hand.

'Mr Ambassador. Please forgive my wife. She is younger than I and, as you can see from her dress sense, she has embraced the rebellion of youth.'

'I am Aage Westergaard,' said their host, 'and I welcome you to our little piece of Denmark here in England. I can say without hesitation that His Majesty King Frederick would approve of Lady Amanda's dress sense, which is surely the height of fashion for Swinging London.'

'I thank the ambassador,' said Amanda, 'and his king.'

'Of course, I cannot speak for that old Viking Sven Forkbeard, who probably had a rather ... shall we say restricted ... view of women.'

'As did my mother,' said Mr Campion, 'who would have been horrified at the thought of women wearing trousers at all, let alone at a diplomatic reception.'

The ambassador stared at Lady Amanda, his gaze sweeping from head-to-foot as if only now aware of her presence, noting her black velvet figure-hugging tuxedo suit, the white blouse with Peter Pan collar and cuffs and the square-toed heeled boots peeping out from beneath fashionably wide flares. With her mellowing red hair cut short, the ambassador decided it would be unwise to guess her age, but was wise enough to know he would be at least ten years wrong, though Lady Amanda required neither flattery nor defending.

'For goodness' sake, nipped waists, fitted bodices and long gloves went out of style years ago. In any case, if one has an Yves Saint Laurent, one should jolly well show it off.'

'Well said, Lady Amanda.' The ambassador bowed his head in genuine admiration. 'And may I suggest that you do so admirably.'

A waiter shimmered across the reception room bearing a tray of champagne flutes and presented himself smartly to attention at the ambassador's right hand.

'Please,' he indicated. 'The hospitality may be Danish, but the champagne is French and of particular quality; or so my staff inform me, for I have little taste in such things.'

'I find that hard to believe, Greve Westergaard,' said Mr Campion, concentrating on his champagne flute as if it held the secret of eternal life.

The ambassador sipped from his glass then waved it gently in front of him as he would wag a finger.

'Please, Mr Campion, let us not bandy titles about, for I suspect you have more to be embarrassed about than I. On these premises, "Mr Ambassador" will suffice, and outside these walls I answer perfectly well to Aage.'

Amanda fixed a steely eye on her husband and regretted that this had not been a sit-down affair so she could have kicked him under the table.

'Forgive me,' she asked politely, 'Greve?'

'A Danish title, equivalent to your English count,' replied Ambassador Westergaard with a sigh. 'Like most titles, a hindrance more often than an advantage, especially in egalitarian Denmark, though often useful when booking a table in a restaurant in London or Paris. However, I am delighted to see that your husband has done his homework on me. I would have expected no less, just as I have done my homework on him, which is why you are both here tonight.'

'Drat! I thought I'd been booked as the cabaret,' said Campion with a straight face. 'I do a passable turn as a magician, am pretty nifty as a juggler and can play a mean boogie-woogie. Where do you keep the piano, by the way?'

Amanda pursed her lips, rolled her eyes upwards and shook her head slowly as if disapproving of the ornate chandelier hovering above them.

'Please, Lady Amanda, do not distress yourself. I was forewarned that I might encounter the Campion sense of humour.'

'Don't worry, it's not catching,' said Campion quickly, 'but I'd...