Her Royal Spyness (29 page)

“It’s good to be out in the country again, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely. Do you dislike the city as much as I do?”

“I don’t dislike it, in fact it could be rather fun if one had money, but I’m a country girl at heart. I need to ride and walk along the loch and feel the wind blowing in my face.”

He stared at me for a long while before saying, “You know, Georgie, I wasn’t joking the other day. You could always marry me. I know I don’t have much now, but one day I’ll be very comfortably off. Perhaps we could live at Eynsleigh and get those fountains going again.”

“You really are sweet, Tris.” I patted his hand. “But I already told you that I plan to marry for love. You feel more like a brother to me. And I won’t ever marry for convenience.”

“All right. I understand. Still, a fellow can always hope to make you change your mind, can’t he?”

I got to my feet. “It’s pretty here, isn’t it? I wonder if there is a view through the trees.”

I started walking down a little path. It was amazing how quickly the car and the road vanished and I was in the middle of the wood. Birds called from the trees, a squirrel raced in front of my feet. I’d been an outdoor girl all my life. Suddenly I sensed that the wood had gone quiet. It felt tense, as if everything were listening and watching. I looked around me uneasily. I was only a few yards from the car. I couldn’t be in any danger, could I? Then I remembered a crowded tube platform. I turned and hurried back to the road.

“Ah, here she is,” said a hearty voice. “We wondered where you’d got to.”

Another car had parked beside us, this one driven by Whiffy Featherstonehaugh and containing Marisa Pauncefoot-Young and Belinda, who were now spreading out their own picnic mat on the grass.

“Where are you heading for?” I asked and was greeted with merry laughter.

“Same as you, silly. We’re the rest of the house party.”

“Come and sit down.” Whiffy patted the mat beside him. “Marisa’s mum has rustled up some spiffing food from Fortnum’s.”

I sat and joined them in a far better picnic than our own, but I couldn’t really enjoy the cold pheasant or the Melton Mowbray pies or Stilton, because I couldn’t shake off the thought that the very people I was trying to avoid were now going to be with me in the country.

We set off again. I stared at their Armstrong Siddeley as it drove ahead of us. Could it possibly be my Celtic sixth sense that made me feel uneasy the moment they arrived?

This was all so ridiculous. These were people I had known for most of my life. I told myself that I was overreacting. All those accidents this past week had been accidents, nothing more sinister. I had read more into them because of the body in the bath and because I was alone and out of my element. I was now going to have a few days of ease and fun and try to forget what had happened to poor Binky and me.

The more powerful Armstrong Siddeley left us behind and we puttered along leafy byways. At last Tristram slowed the car and pointed. “There, through the trees. That’s Eynsleigh. Do you remember it?”

I looked down a long graceful driveway lined with plane trees. Beyond was a rambling Tudor mansion in red and white brick. Happy memories stirred. I had ridden up that driveway on a fat little pony called Squibs. And Sir Hubert had made me a tree house.

“I can understand why you love it so much,” I said. “I remember it as a very happy place.”

We drove on and were soon approaching yet another lovely house. This one was Farlows, home of the Mountjoys. It was Georgian, with elegant lines, its balustrade crowned with classical marble statues. There was a colonnade of more statues along the driveway.

“Quite an impressive showing, don’t you think?” Tristram said. “There is obviously money in the arms game. There’s always a war somewhere. Even the statues look violent, don’t they? Even more alarming than that fierce angel at your place.”

We passed an ornamental lake with fountains playing and came to a halt beside a flight of marble steps, leading to the front door. Liveried servants came out immediately, murmuring, “Welcome, m’lady,” as they whisked away my luggage. At the top of the steps I was received by the butler. “Good afternoon, my lady. May I be permitted to say how sorry I was to read of His Grace’s current plight. Lady Mountjoy is awaiting you in the long gallery if you’d care to take tea.”

I was back in a world where I knew the rules. I followed the butler through to the long gallery, where Whiffy and his party were already attacking the crumpets with Imogen Mountjoy. Several older people were seated together. I recognized Whiffy’s parents among them. Lady Mountjoy stood up and came to greet me.

“My dear, so good of you to come at such an unsettling time. We all feel for your poor, dear brother. Such a travesty. Let us hope they get to the bottom of it rapidly. Come and meet Imogen and our American guests.”

Imogen pretended to be thrilled. “Georgie. How lovely,” she said. We kissed the air somewhere near each other’s cheeks. I glanced around, expecting to see Mrs. Simpson, but the Americans turned out to be a Mr. and Mrs. Wilton J. Weinberger.

“I understand your brother is the Dook we’ve been reading about,” he said as he shook my hand.

“And these are our neighbors, Colonel and Mrs. Bantry-Bynge.” Lady Mountjoy whisked me away before I could be interrogated on this subject. I had wondered why the woman had seemed vaguely familiar. I felt my face flushing and awaited doom. Colonel Bantry-Bynge shook my hand. “How de doo,” he said heartily.

Mrs. Bantry-Bynge also took my hand. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, your ladyship.” And gave a little curtsy. Her eyes were lowered and I had no way of knowing whether she recognized me as her former maid or not. If she did, she was obviously not going to say anything, given that I knew what I knew. I stood with the group, exchanging a few pleasantries on “your delightful British countryside and how disappointed Willy is that he couldn’t try the hunting,” then I was mercifully dragged away by Imogen to see pictures of her recent trip to Florence.

“Is this the sum total of male dance partners?” I whispered to her. “Whiffy and Tristram?”

She made a face. “I know. It’s grim, isn’t it. But Mummy says it’s not really a young person’s weekend and it all is for the prince and his pals, but she is trying to come up with a couple more men who are not old fogies in time for the ball tomorrow. Whiffy’s not a bad dancing partner but Tristram is guaranteed to step on one’s toes. He’s hopeless, isn’t he? I used to hate it when he was brought over to play with us. He was always breaking one’s toys or falling out of trees and getting us into trouble.”

“Imogen, why don’t you show your friends to their rooms,” Lady Mountjoy suggested. “I’m sure you young people have masses to talk about.”

“Good idea. Come on, then.” She led us up the stairs, marching in unladylike fashion. “Anything to get away from those awful people,” she said, glancing back down the curved staircase. “Thank God it’s not hunting season or that Wilton person would have ruined our horses. Utterly dreary so far, don’t you think? I mean, one had hopes about the Prince of Wales, but one gathers that he has other interests.”

“Who will be arriving with her own husband,” Belinda said, laughing.

“Really?” Marisa looked fascinated.

“Absolutely. The poor thing is dragged around like a dog on a leash.”

Marisa made a face. “Just don’t let me drink too much and make a fool of myself in front of HRH. You know what I’m like.”

We reached the first landing—a grand affair with marble busts in niches and a noble corridor going off in both directions. “You’re down here, Georgie,” Imogen said. “You get the royal treatment in the best bedrooms, along with HRH. The rest of us are up another floor, slumming it.”

“I hope certain other guests will also be on this floor,” Belinda whispered, “or there will be a lot of creeping up and down stairs during the night.”

“I’m not sure it’s reached the creeping-up-and-down stage yet,” Imogen said. “But I can tell you that a certain married couple has been given rooms on this floor, only on the other side of the great staircase, so it will still be a long hike, and cold feet on the marble floor.” Imogen giggled. “If you hear a shriek, Georgie, that’s what it will be—cold feet.”

My room was at the far end of the corridor. It was quite delightful, with bay windows overlooking the lake and the park. My clothes had already been unpacked and put away.

“Did you bring your maid or do you want me to send one down to dress you?” Imogen asked.

“My maid’s still in Scotland, but I’ve learned to dress myself,” I said.

“Have you? Clever you.”

“My maid’s arriving by train,” Belinda said. “You can borrow her if you like.”

I could sense the strain between Belinda and myself and didn’t know if it all came from me. I noticed she hadn’t been her normal friendly self.

“We’ll leave you to change then, while I take these two to their humble abodes up above,” Imogen said. “Cocktails at seven. Have a nice rest first.” At the doorway she turned back. “Oh, and there’s a little staircase right beside your room, which actually leads into the long gallery, where we’ll be having cocktails.”

Left alone, I lay on my bed, but couldn’t relax. I got up and paced around the room. From my window I spotted Whiffy Featherstonehaugh striding out away from the house. At one point he looked up at the house and then hurried on. I watched him, my thoughts churning. Someone I had known for most of my life—a Guards officer, a little stiff and stuffy, perhaps, but surely not a murderer. But he was also a frequent visitor at Crockford’s, at times when de Mauxville had been there. And . . . I remembered one thing more . . . the impression on the pad beside the telephone in de Mauxville’s room:
R—10:30
. Whiffy’s name was Roderick. Somehow I had to confront him this weekend. I had to find out the truth. I was fed up with living with danger.

I put such thoughts aside and applied myself to the task of getting dressed for dinner. For once I had to look respectable. I had brought a cream silk dress with burgundy sleeves that complemented my coloring rather well and had enough shape to it to prevent me from looking like a bean-pole. I ventured a little rouge to my cheeks, a dash of lipstick to my lips, and put my twenty-first birthday pearls around my neck. I was rather proud of doing the whole thing without help. Thus adorned, I went to meet and mingle. My end of the corridor was unlit and I descended the little spiral staircase with caution. One step. Two. Suddenly I lost my footing, pitched forward, and hurtled downward. There was no banister and my hands slid off smooth walls. I suppose it all happened quickly but it was almost as if I were flying downward in slow motion. I saw a suit of armor looming up ahead of me only an instant before I collided with it. I noticed that its ax was raised and I raised my own arms to defend myself. There was a crash, a clatter, and I found myself sitting with bits of armor raining down around me.

Instantly people came running up from below.

“Georgie, are you all right?”

Worried faces stared at me as I was helped to my feet. I brushed myself down and appeared not to have suffered any major damage, apart from some scrapes to my arms and a laddered stocking.

“I should have warned you about that staircase,” Lady Mountjoy was saying. “The lighting is poor. I’ve spoken to William about it.”

“Honestly, Georgie,” Belinda said, attempting to laugh it off, “I swear you’d find something to trip over in the middle of a large polished floor. Oh, your poor arm. Lucky you weren’t wearing long gloves or you would have ruined them. Let’s go back to your room and get it cleaned up. And you’ve laddered your stockings. Do you want another pair?”

Everyone was being very kind. I let them minister to me and noticed how carefully they led me downstairs again.

“Here she is, safe and sound.” Lady Mountjoy sounded relieved. “Come and be presented to His Royal Highness.” She led me over to where my cousin David was standing with Lord Mountjoy and a couple of stiff young men who were obviously HRH’s equerries.

“What-ho, Georgie,” David said before Lady Mountjoy could do any presenting. “Been fighting suits of armor, so I hear.”

“Just an unlucky tumble, sir,” Lady Mountjoy said, before I could answer. “But all is well. A glass of champagne, or would you rather have a cocktail, Georgiana?”

“She needs a brandy after that scare,” Lord Mountjoy said and one was brought to me. I didn’t like to admit that I don’t enjoy brandy and was grateful to have something to sip. Because it was going to take a lot to calm my nerves at the moment. As I was being ministered to upstairs, I picked something from my skirt. It was a piece of strong black thread. I couldn’t think how it got there until it dawned on me that somebody could have strung it across the top of those steps—someone who knew that I would probably be the only person who used them tonight. My attacker was indeed in the house with me.

Chapter 26

Farlows
Friday, May 6, 1932

I had no time to think, however, as I was led away to meet the women. I spotted Mrs. Simpson instantly. She was dressed in a trouser outfit rather like the one I had modeled so disastrously, and was holding court on the most comfortable sofa, currently giving what sounded like an impression of the Duke of York’s stutter. We were duly introduced.

“I think I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I?” she drawled, eyeing me critically.

“It’s possible,” I said, trying to sound disinterested and remembering all the rude things she had said.

“Let’s see, now. You’re the one whose mother was an ‘actress’ who snagged a duke, right?” She made the word sound as if it were a euphemism for something less reputable.

“She was indeed,” I said. “If you get a chance to meet her, then maybe she could give you some pointers on how to act like a princess.” I smiled sweetly. There was gentle tittering but she looked daggers at me. As I excused myself and walked on I heard her say loudly, “That poor girl, so tall and gawkish still. If she marries at all, she’ll probably have to settle for some brute of a farmer.”