Naughty In Nice (22 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Naughty In Nice
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Jean-Paul got to his feet. “Come,
ma petite
. We should dance—no?”
“Here?” I giggled nervously, conscious that I was wearing nothing under his silk dressing gown and that we were standing on a sandy beach.
“Where else?” he asked, holding out his hand to me. He took me into his arms. I was horribly aware of his body pressing against mine. But our dance had scarcely begun when the first drops of rain fell. “Umbrella, Pierre!” he commanded.
And miraculously a large umbrella was opened and held over us as we danced. It was romantic but at the same time bizarre to be dancing on sand with the lapping waves to one side and the raindrops pattering on the umbrella over us.
It was a French café song, sung throatily and with great passion. I was feeling rather confused myself. Did I feel passion for this man? What would happen when the dance was over? He was smiling down at me, his eyes holding mine. Then slowly he leaned to me and his lips brushed mine. The effect was electrifying. Then he kissed me again, his lips playing with mine now, making me want to respond to him. And I knew I was responding. I could feel myself pressing my body against his . . .
Without warning the heavens opened. Thunder grumbled nearby and lightning flashed.
“I think we have to concede that the gods are not being kind,” Jean-Paul said. “A little rain is good, but this—to stay out in this is madness. We do not wish to be struck by lightning, and you have already had one soaking today. Come.” He took my hand and led me back up the steps into the house, while the faithful Pierre kept the umbrella over us so that we remained dry all the way. Once inside I found that my white linen trousers and sailor top had been cleaned and pressed for me. I went into the bathroom and changed into them.
“I regret that the weather has been unkind enough to cut short what could have been a delightfully romantic afternoon.” Jean-Paul was waiting for me as I came out of the bathroom. “But no matter. I will drive you home now and you will rest and change into something ravishing. I will call for you at eight o’clock and we shall go for a delightful dinner and then we shall dance with no rain falling on us. Does that idea please you?”
“Yes, it does,” I said.
“Excellent. I look forward to it with great anticipation.” I floated out of there, my head full of champagne and romance. The whole afternoon was so improbable it was quite outside my sphere of experience. Things like this happened to my mother and Belinda. They didn’t happen to me. But it was happening. I was the one that Jean-Paul was pursuing—a rich, powerful man wanted me. I hoped Darcy had noticed last night whom I was with. I hoped he couldn’t sleep, thinking about the mistake he had made in losing me!
There was a most sleek and impressive car waiting outside. It was a sports car but the top was up because of the rain.
“Your car is lovely,” I said, sounding hopelessly girlish and unsophisticated, I’m sure.
“Yes, it is, rather,” Jean-Paul replied. “It’s a Voisin, the most desirable of French automobiles.” He helped me in and off we went. He drove rather fast but well around those hairpin curves and pulled up outside our front door.
He took my hand and kissed it.
“À bientôt, ma petite,”
he said. The rain had abated to a drizzle as Jean-Paul drove away, spraying gravel. I opened the front door to find the villa deserted. Claudette told me that the ladies had not returned from town and she didn’t know when they would come back. Her shrug indicated that she didn’t much care. I went up to my room and found Queenie sitting on my bed, shoveling the remains of a croissant into her mouth. Crumbs were everywhere. Before I could admonish her she jumped up, brushing crumbs wildly all over my eiderdown.
“I ain’t half glad you’re here, miss,” she said, her mouth still full. “I had to come up here to get away. They are all foreign in this place.”
“Yes, well, they would be. We’re in France,” I pointed out.
“But they don’t like me. Down in the kitchen they speak Froggy to each other and look at me and laugh. One of them told me I was not a proper lady’s maid just ’cos I said I didn’t like their Froggy food and I’d take a plate of bangers and mash or bubble and squeak any day.”
“Well, that’s true as well,” I agreed. “You still have a lot to learn, Queenie. Among other things, you still call me ‘miss.’ ”
“Well, blow me—I still do, don’t I?” she said. “I don’t seem to be able to get it into my thick head that I’m supposed to say ‘my lady.’ It seems so queer, I suppose.”
I suppose I’d had an emotionally fraught day. Usually I’d have laughed off her last words but I found myself saying, in my most autocratic voice, “Nevertheless, I am a lady and that is my title. You’ll have to get used to it sometime if you want to stay in my service.”
“I’ll try harder, I promise.” She looked quite shaken and I felt bad immediately.
“We’ll hope for a miracle, shall we?” I relented and smiled at her. “And you can start by laying out my clothes for this evening. I want my nicest evening dress—the nicest one that you haven’t ruined with ironing it wrongly, that is. And the right stockings and shoes and underwear and jewelry. Can I leave those to you? I’m going out on a very important date.”
“Are you, miss? What, with a foreign gentleman?”
“With a foreign gentleman—actually, a foreign marquis. And a very handsome and rich one. So I want to look as good as I can.”
“Bob’s yer uncle, miss. Don’t you worry. I’ll help you tart yerself up.”
“Queenie,” I said, shaking my head, “I don’t think you’ll ever make a proper lady’s maid.”
I went downstairs and lay on a sofa in the pretty little writing room that looked out over the sea. The rain squall had passed and already there were patches of blue sky between clouds. I tried to rest but I was too keyed up. One way or another tonight was going to be a life-changing experience for me. I had no idea whether Jean-Paul would drive me home after dinner and dancing or take me back to his villa, where Pierre, like Sir Toby’s men, had been trained to turn a blind eye to all kinds of goings-on. Was that what I wanted? Wasn’t I merely flattered that someone as desirable as Jean-Paul was paying attention to me? Wasn’t part of my motivation that I wanted to punish Darcy? And did I really want to give up my virginity to someone like Jean-Paul, who would probably lose interest in me tomorrow? But then, I was twenty-two and a half and it was about time . . . besides, Jean-Paul had made it perfectly clear that he would never force a woman if she didn’t want to. Unlike that brute Sir Toby—
I sat upright again. After today I could never go back to his villa. I had failed the queen in my task. Well, maybe not quite. I looked out the window. There was no sign of his yacht yet, which must mean he was still out at sea—and that the villa was temptingly vacant—except for Johnson. I knew he had been sent into town on an errand so he might well not have returned either. If there had been other servants they were not in evidence while I was there. Might it be possible to climb down the cliff and enter the house by the French doors by the pool and then take the queen’s snuffbox?
The thought of it made my heart lurch. Then I decided that if I bumped into a servant, all I needed was a good excuse for having come back. I had left my—what? I hadn’t come with the proverbial gloves or purse. I had come with nothing. An earring—that was it. Small enough to have rolled under something. I had lost a valuable pearl earring and I wanted to see if it fell out while I was at Sir Toby’s. Yes. That was satisfactory and should appease Johnson or anyone else I met. I went upstairs and took out one of my pearl earrings to use as evidence.
“Oh, I didn’t know you wanted yer pearls tonight, melady,” Queenie said, looking up from laying things out on my bed. I noticed she had put out my daytime lisle stockings to go with my evening wear. “I thought you said pearls were for daytime.”
“They are. I just needed this earring. Maybe the amethysts for tonight?”
I changed out of my white linen trousers and put on an ordinary skirt and blouse and sandals. Then I ran back downstairs, my heart still racing. It was a perfect time—the others weren’t home yet. Neither was Sir Toby. Nobody to see me climb down the cliff and sneak past his swimming pool. Out of the back of the house, across the terrace and down through the bushes to one side of the stone balustrade I went. It was no longer raining but the hillside was slick with reddish mud. I slithered and slipped my way down, clinging to pine trees and shrubs as I descended not at all gracefully.
At last I reached the oleanders around Sir Toby’s pool without sitting on my bottom once—quite an achievement. I peered through the leaves at the house. No sign of movement. One of the French doors appeared to be still slightly open. Perfect. All I had to do was tiptoe around the pool . . . I emerged from the shrubs, holding my breath, and moved forward cautiously. The pool deck was slippery with rain. I should take care not to lose my footing and fall in, because a big splash would certainly . . . I glanced into the pool and let out an involuntary yelp of horror.
Sir Toby was in his pool. I leaped back behind the nearest bush. How could he be home already when his yacht was not there? I peeked through the branches. He didn’t appear to have seen me. That’s when I noticed that he was lying facedown, sprawled across the top step, half submerged in water, and across the back of his head was a red stain that was turning the water around him pink.
 
Chapter 20
 
January 26, 1933
Villa Marguerite. Sir Toby is dead in his swimming pool.
Oh, crikey.
 
I didn’t know what to do. If I shouted for help, I’d have to explain my presence trespassing in his back garden. I started to inch away until I reached the shrubs around the perimeter, then I slithered and clawed my way back up the hill until I was standing safely on my mother’s terrace. I felt as if I was about to be sick. He had to be dead, didn’t he? He hadn’t moved, and his head—my stomach heaved. The back of his head had been smashed in. I leaned over the railing and noticed that I could see him from there, sprawled on that broad top step, half submerged in water.
I should call the police but had no idea how to do this in France. So I should alert the servants and have them do the calling.
As I walked toward the house I heard voices echoing in the marble hallway.
“And that funny little man’s face—wasn’t it a picture, after I said we were bringing in a top English policeman!” My mother’s voice, carrying clearly.
“And he said, ‘But this is France,
Madame
. An English policeman has no power to investigate a crime committed in France. It is an outrage. It will not be permitted.’”
Then they went into peals of laugher. I hurried inside to join them.
“Oh, there you are, darling. How was the visit to Sir Toby? Did you get the scoop on what happened to Olga? We’ve been laying bets on why she left. Such fun. And we—” She broke off. “Are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s Sir Toby,” I said. “Come and look.”
I led them outside and made them lean over the railing to look down at Sir Toby’s pool.
“Mon Dieu,”
Coco said. “Is he drowned? Call for help. He may still be saved, perhaps.”
“No, I’m sure he’s dead,” I said. “I saw him in the pool and thought he was just swimming, you know—then I saw the back of his head was all horribly bloody.”
“How awful,” Mummy said. “He must have fallen and hit his head, then collapsed into the pool.”
“We should call the police,” Vera said.
“Why should we notify the police?” Coco asked. “Let his servants do this if they wish. It is strange that none of them has noticed the plight of their master. We can alert them to this matter, if you wish.”
“No, don’t,” I said sharply, causing all three women to look at me. “They might touch something and disturb evidence.”
“Evidence?” my mother asked.
“We have to view it as a crime scene,” I said. “He can’t have hit the back of his head and then fallen forward into the pool. That just isn’t possible. Someone must have come up on him from behind and hit him over the head so that he fell into the water.”
“Good God,” Vera said. “Are you suggesting that somebody killed him deliberately? Murdered him?”

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