Naughty In Nice (6 page)
Authors: Rhys Bowen
Chapter 5
Buckingham Palace
Still January 17, 1933
Still January 17, 1933
I think my jaw might have dropped open a little, which is not permissible for ladies of my standing. I don’t think I could be blamed for being somewhat surprised, however.
“You want me to steal it?”
“Retrieve it, Georgiana. Sir Toby is the one who has stolen it.”
“And if I’m caught?”
“You will tell Sir Toby that the queen wanted her property back without causing any kind of public scandal. I don’t think he’d want to make a fuss. And if he did—well, I have good documentation in my possession that the snuffbox was in the Buckingham Palace collection until recently. He’d look an awful fool, and I don’t think he’s the kind of man who would like to be ridiculed.”
My heart was racing. “But I don’t know Sir Toby. How am I supposed to gain access to his villa?”
You can tell how rattled I was. I had forgotten to add “ma’am.”
“Everyone knows everyone else on the Riviera, so I’m told. You said your family is going there. Well, Sir Toby has a villa in Nice, so I’m sure you’ll all attend the same parties. You’re a pretty young girl and you have royal connections. You’ll be invited everywhere.”
I didn’t say that I thought it unlikely anyone would invite Fig and her unsociable sister, Ducky, unless they were really desperate. I felt a great weight of doom descending on me. For a moment I thought that I’d rather take up the offer of becoming Princess Louise’s companion, but then my sense of adventure took over. It was exciting, after all. Better than serving soup in dreary London. Much better than sitting alone at Castle Rannoch.
I’d go to the Riviera. I’d do my best to carry out the queen’s request, and if I didn’t succeed, then that was too bad. At least I could ascertain whether Sir Toby had the snuffbox or not.
I could sense the queen looking at me. “So can I count on you, Georgiana?”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”
She smiled then. “Splendid. You are a good girl, Georgiana. A credit to the family. I can’t understand why you’re not married yet. I had rather hoped that you’d find yourself a husband at Princess Maria Theresa’s wedding. So many eligible young princes there.” When I said nothing she added, “We are expected to do our duty, Georgiana. You need a place of your own in society. It’s not good to be dependent on others.”
“I would like to marry, ma’am. It’s just that nobody suitable has asked me.”
She patted my knee, which was an uncharacteristically familiar gesture for her. “I’m sure it will all work out in the end. And speaking of marriage, there’s one other small task you can carry out for me while you’re on the Riviera. My son David is shirking his duties again and is cruising the Med on a friend’s yacht. I understand that dreadful American woman was seen leaving London the other day on the boat train.”
“Mrs. Simpson, you mean?”
“Mrs. Simpson indeed. And one gathers that her husband was with her. She drags him around for respectability’s sake. The woman has no shame.”
“I suppose we should be glad that she stays married to him. At least she can’t think of marrying the Prince of Wales if she already has a husband.”
“Marrying my son? You surely don’t think that David is considering—preposterous. Quite out of the question. The nation would never stand for a divorced woman as our future queen! The church would not condone it. His family would certainly never stand for it.” She paused, as if considering. “So, Georgiana, there may be another little thing I’d like you to do for me while you’re there. . . .”
“You’d like me to keep an eye on Mrs. Simpson, would you, ma’am?”
She hesitated, then said firmly, “Yes, that’s it. Keep an eye on Mrs. Simpson. The king has always behaved impeccably, Georgiana. We can’t have the heir to the throne behaving like a common playboy and bringing disgrace to the royal family. So if you see him appearing in public with this woman, I’d like to know about it. You’ll write to me immediately to let me know whether she is actually staying on the yacht with him.”
“I will, ma’am.”
She stood up. I followed suit, as one doesn’t sit when royalty stands. “Well, that’s all settled then. This is most fortuitous, isn’t it? You go to the Riviera with the family and I achieve my objectives as well. Very satisfactory all around. I’ll instruct my secretary to make your travel arrangements.”
I was escorted from the room. As I walked through the palace I mulled over the last part of our interview. I could have sworn that she wanted to ask me to do something quite different from spying on Mrs. Simpson. She had hesitated and changed her mind at the last moment. I wondered if it was another piece of cat burglary that she had wanted me to carry out. I heaved a sigh of relief. Spying on Mrs. Simpson was something I knew I could do.
I left the palace feeling both excited and scared. But it was mostly excited. I was going to the Riviera after all. After that my first thought was that of every woman, when faced with a crisis—I had nothing suitable to wear on the French Riviera, especially if I was to be hobnobbing with one of the richest men in England. As soon as I got home, I opened my wardrobe door and stared in dismay at the few cotton dresses and skirts I owned. Nothing that could vaguely be called “smart,” and no way of obtaining anything better. Belinda had already departed, taking her gorgeous gowns with her. She’d be needing them herself and I didn’t think she’d be willing to lend me a few. I had nobody else I could beg, borrow or steal from. I pictured myself walking down the Promenade des Anglais in my crumpled cotton prints while silk- and linen-clad ladies stared at me with distaste. They’d think I was somebody’s companion or nursemaid!
For a moment, as I went up the steps into Rannoch House, I came to the conclusion that I shouldn’t go after all, then I realized that this was being ridiculous. To turn down a chance to be on the Riviera just because I didn’t have smart clothes—what was I thinking? Even if Queenie was as hopeless at laundry and ironing as she was at everything else, the family we’d be staying with would have sensible and efficient French maids who would at least make me look respectable, if not fashionable.
This reminded me of the matter of Queenie. The queen hadn’t said anything about paying my maid’s fare, and I was pretty sure that Fig wouldn’t want her at the villa, since she’d already told me to dismiss her. Poor old Queenie. The amount I was paying her wouldn’t keep body and soul together if she wasn’t being fed and clothed. Perhaps I should find her a temporary situation while I was away. I paused, considering this, then shook my head. I couldn’t in all honesty give her a letter of recommendation. It wouldn’t be fair to saddle an innocent party with her. She was, I had to confess, completely and absolutely useless.
I went into my bedroom and closed the door firmly behind me. I needed time to think this through carefully.
“Oh, botheration,” I muttered.
“Whatcher, miss,” Queenie interrupted me. “I had a good idea about that skirt of yours what I messed up. We could get one of them silk flowers, or a bunch of them pretend grapes, and sew them over the bald spot.”
In spite of everything I had to laugh. “Queenie, one cannot go to dinner with a bunch of grapes hanging from one’s stomach. Besides, I won’t be needing velvet for a while, so maybe I can send it back to Scotland with the servants. Our gamekeeper’s wife is a good seamstress. I’m sure she’ll be able to rescue it.”
“So where exactly are we going when they shut up the house here?” (Of course, there were no aitches in her version of the sentence.)
I took a deep breath. “Actually, Queenie, I’m going to France with them.”
Her face lit up. “We’re going abroad again? To foreign parts? Wait till I tell my old mum, who told me I’d never amount to nothing. And look at me now, hobnobbing all over the Continent. I got quite a taste for that foreign food after I got used to it.”
Oh, golly. How was I going to put this tactfully? I had to tell her.
“You see, the thing is, Queenie—”
“Yes, my lady? See, I remembered this time—I’m improving, aren’t I?” She was staring at me expectantly.
“I’ll want all my summer clothes washed and pressed,” I ended lamely. “You can do that without scorching anything, can’t you?”
“I’ll give it a ruddy good try, my lady,” she said.
Chapter 6
January 17, 1933
I can hardly believe it. I am going to the Riviera. Still have
a few things to take care of first. Find spectacular wardrobe
somehow. Sort things out for Queenie.
I can hardly believe it. I am going to the Riviera. Still have
a few things to take care of first. Find spectacular wardrobe
somehow. Sort things out for Queenie.
I was in an agony of indecision about what to do with Queenie. I had put aside enough money to pay her for a year, but it was a pitifully small amount. Would her parents let her live with them at home? Could she find another job while I was gone? I knew I was being ridiculously softhearted. Anyone else would have given her the sack after a day. I had tolerated and forgiven a string of ruined clothes and other gaffes and she really hadn’t shown many signs of improvement. Maybe this would be a good time to let her go and hope that she landed another job, somehow, somewhere. Since she had accidentally set her former employer’s skirt on fire, I didn’t think that was too likely.
Then I thought of her face when I’d announced the trip to the Continent. Most girls of her station would be terrified at the thought of going abroad. But she was excited. I sighed. What was I going to do with her? I really couldn’t take her with me, but I couldn’t just turn her out to fend for herself. I decided the only thing to do was to go and visit Granddad. He was wise. Besides, his neighbor Mrs. Huggins would be there, and she was Queenie’s great-aunt. Together they would come up with a solution for me.
The thought of visiting Granddad cheered me up instantly. He was the one person who was not fettered by all the silly rules of my class, who showed that he really cared about me. I cared about him too, but our lives were so different that it was hard for us to spend time together. I didn’t belong in an Essex suburb and he didn’t belong at Rannoch House. I put on my overcoat and scarf again and headed for the Underground station.
Granddad’s neat little semidetached house usually looked quite cheerful, with its gnomes in the tiny front garden. But at this time of year nothing was growing in those tiny flower beds and one of the gnomes had fallen on his face. I righted him before I knocked on the front door.
It was opened by Mrs. Huggins (or should I say Mrs. ’uggins, because that is what she calls herself), Granddad’s next-door neighbor. She was wearing a flowered pinny over a hand-knitted jumper of orange and purple stripes. I realized that Queenie’s taste in clothes obviously ran in the family.
“Well, strike me down,” she said. “If it ain’t ’er ladyship. Come on in, ducks. This won’t ’alf perk up the old bloke.”
“Is he ill, then?”
She nodded as she ushered me into the narrow hallway. “It’s ’is chest again.” She leaned close to whisper the words.
“You know what it’s like in the winter. He’s just had a nasty cold and it don’t seem to go away, so he’s getting my good stew and dumplings ’til he’s on the mend.”
“Who is it, Hettie?” came Granddad’s voice, followed by a bout of coughing.
“It’s me, Granddad.” I went through to the tiny living room. My grandfather was sitting in an armchair by the fire, a rug over his knees. His face lit up when he saw me.
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