On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service

by Rhys Bowen

  “Nothing’s wrong with either of us,” I said, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “And recently it’s mainly been Darcy’s idea. Since we became engaged and he went to confession, he’s treated me with kid gloves on. Catholics seem to be funny that way.”

  She smiled. “Darcy of all people. Who would have thought he could remain chaste for more than a week?”

  And there was that seed of worry again. Would he remain chaste when he was far away? I knew I should trust him absolutely, but everyone else seemed to take bed-hopping for granted. I pushed such thoughts to the back of my mind and entertained Belinda with stories about the awful Fig, Darcy’s father and his romance with the princess.

  I repeated this routine for the next three days, each day checking the local newspaper for any mention of the Prince of Wales and the house party. Unfortunately, the weather changed and we were confined to her sterile room, sitting on her bed or on the hard chairs while wind and rain battered on the window. By the third day I was finding it a strain to think of bright and cheerful things to talk about and was actually wishing the house party might soon start. So on Sunday morning I was pleased to see the headline I wanted: English Prince Comes to Stresa. And a picture of the Prince of Wales with Mrs. Simpson at his side standing by his motorcar beside the lake. I read on. The prince will be attending a private party and was not part of the English delegation that has just departed.

  It was time to become the queen’s spy. I caught the ferry back to Stresa, much to Belinda’s disappointment. I saw her waving to me from her terrace as the taxi took me down the hill and felt a pang of guilt about leaving her. Only for a few days, I reminded myself. Bells were ringing for Sunday church services as the ferry cruised down the lake toward Italy, their sweet chimes echoing back from the steep hillsides. It was a serene and picturesque scene and I tried not to let my apprehension about what I was facing overwhelm me. It was only a house party, I told myself. Nothing I couldn’t handle for a few days.

  I took a taxi up to Belinda’s house and packed what I hoped was suitable clothing into my suitcase. Then the taxi drove me down to Villa Fiori. We came to a stop outside the gates while the driver gave me an inquiring look. “We go in?” he asked in Italian even I could understand. I hesitated. If I arrived in a taxi it would seem that I was intending to join the house party. I knew the queen was going to suggest I join the party, but what if her letter hadn’t arrived?

  “I’d better get out here,” I said and had the driver unload my suitcase. I paid him and he drove off, leaving me standing outside those imposing wrought-iron gates, listening to the gentle lap of the lake water. The wind ruffled my hair and I tried to smooth it down while I took in the scene before me. Beyond the gates the gardens sloped up the hillside, beautifully manicured formal lawns and flower beds giving way higher up the hill to terraces, trees and parkland. The yellow gravel driveway was lined by palm trees and ended in a forecourt in which a fountain was playing. The villa itself was what one expects an Italian palace to look like—pale lemon yellow with white shutters on either side of arched windows. There were statues decorating the roof and at the front a sweeping flight of steps led up to a marble balustrade. All very grand! I swallowed hard and took a deep breath before I dared to push open those gates.

  Gardeners were still working as I walked up the drive, trying to look as if my suitcase was lighter than it really felt. One of the gardeners had removed his shirt and was bending to plant a border around a fountain. When he stood up again I couldn’t help noticing that his physique was . . . well, admirable. I couldn’t see his face because he was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, but I sensed him watching me as I continued up the drive. Again I allowed myself a smirk. So Italian men found me attractive. Then I reprimanded myself. I was about to become a married woman. Surely I shouldn’t be noticing the chest muscles of gardeners?

  As I approached the villa I spotted a group of people, sitting on a terrace beneath an arbor of wisteria. I felt suddenly shy and awkward. Why had I not asked the driver to take me to the villa? I must look pathetic, staggering up the drive carrying my own suitcase and dressed in my unfashionable tweed suit. And what if the letter still hadn’t arrived and here I was with my suitcase? Had the queen actually suggested that I join the house party, or merely that I should be welcomed for a drink if I showed up? Why on earth hadn’t I left the suitcase at Belinda’s house and pretended I had just dropped by to pay my respects? Then, when they suggested I should stay, I could have acted as if I was surprised and they would have sent someone to pick up my belongings. But now I was committed. I couldn’t retreat without being noticed. It was only a matter of time before one of them looked up and . . .

  I was startled by a great scream. “Georgie!”

  I was even more startled to see that the scream came from my mother. She had risen to her feet and was running toward me, her arms open. “Georgie, my darling!” she exclaimed in that voice that had filled London theaters. “What a lovely, lovely surprise. I had no idea you were coming to join us. Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

  She flung her arms around me, something she was not in the habit of doing. Then she turned back to the others. “Which of you arranged to bring my daughter to me? Was it you, Max, who suggested it? You knew I was pining for her, didn’t you?”

  I had prudently put down the suitcase before she attacked me. Now she took my hand and dragged me forward. “Everybody, this is my darling child, Georgie, whom I haven’t seen for ages and ages. And I had no idea she was coming to join us.” She gazed at me adoringly. “And now you’re here. It seems like a miracle.”

  I noticed she had failed to mention that she had bumped into me a few days ago and at that time there had been no talk of inviting me to join her. Nor had she seemed overjoyed to see me. As I smiled back at her I wondered what she was up to.

  Several other members of the party had also risen to their feet as she led me up steps to the arbor. Among them I recognized Miss Cami-Knickers herself. She looked older, perfectly groomed, incredibly chic as she stepped down from the terrace and approached me.

  “Georgiana. How delightful to see you again after all this time. I was so pleased to receive a note from the queen herself suggesting that you join our party.”

  I shook the hand that was offered. “I do hope this has not inconvenienced you in any way, Camilla,” I said. “When I told Her Majesty that I’d be staying nearby I really had no idea she’d invite me to be part of your house party. But she was insistent that I pay my respects to my cousin, the Prince of Wales.”

  “But not at all,” Camilla laughed. I remembered she had always had a horsey sort of laugh. Her horsey looks had definitely been improved with impeccable grooming and expensive clothes, but the laugh was unchanged. “Actually we’re horribly short on women at the party, so you are a godsend at evening up the numbers. Come and meet my husband and the other guests.”

  I followed her up to the terrace, where several men were now standing to greet me. One of them I recognized immediately as Paolo, Belinda’s former love. I saw from his face that he also remembered me, but I also saw the warning sign flash in his eyes. “Pretend you don’t know me,” could not have been more clear if he had shouted the words.

  “My husband, Paolo, Count of Marola and Martini,” she said proudly.

  “My dear Lady Georgiana, you are most welcome, especially since my wife tells me you and she were old friends from your school days.” He took my hand and kissed it.

  “How do you do, Count?” I said, inclining my head formally. “But please let us dispense with formality. Why don’t you call me Georgie?”

  “Georgie. How charming.” He smiled. I had forgotten how incredibly handsome he was. I could see why Belinda had been quite smitten at the time.

  Camilla took my arm and moved me on. “And of course you already know Herr von Strohheim?”

  My mother’s beau, Max, clicked his heels and s
aid, “Georgie. I am pleased to see you again,” in his stilted, staccato English. At least it was better than when he first met my mother and spoke only occasional monosyllables.

  “Max, how are you?” I said, shaking his hand. He too looked handsome in a blond and Germanic way and I was reminded of my encounter on the train with . . .

  “And this is Count Rudolf von Rosskopf,” Camilla said, and I found myself face-to-face with my would-be seducer.

  He too took my hand and drew it to his lips. “We meet again, Lady Georgiana,” he said. “What a delightful surprise. And I had no idea that we would run into each other again so soon. It must be fate, drawing us together.” He looked rather pleased with himself and his eyes flirted with me.

  “Behave yourself, Rudi,” my mother snapped. “This is my young daughter, you know.”

  “Not too young,” Rudi said. “Ripe and ready for adventure, I think.”

  “Now, Rudi, you are to do what Claire says and behave yourself,” Camilla said, slapping his hand, which still held mine. “Or I shall send you packing.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “Come, Georgiana, let me show you to your room and you can freshen up before you join us.”

  I went to retrieve my suitcase, but she waved this aside. “One of the servants will bring it for you. Is that all your luggage or is the rest to follow?”

  “That’s all,” I said.

  “My, but you travel light.” She shot me a surprised look as she led me across the raked gravel forecourt and up onto the marble terrace that ran around the house, then pushed open one of the French doors at the side of the house. As soon as we were out of earshot I turned to her. “I really must apologize for this, Camilla. Being foisted on you like this. When I mentioned to the queen that I was coming to this part of the world I had no idea that she’d suddenly take matters into her own hands and think that I needed company and needed to be with my cousin.”

  “Not at all,” Camilla said. “Pleased to have you join us. I meant what I said about not enough women. And several frightfully boring men. My husband’s uncle, who is not my favorite person, and a couple of German officers. Equally stuffy and correct. You’ll be a ray of sunshine, as your mother and Rudi have already demonstrated.”

  “Yes,” I said, still wondering why my mother had put on such an extravagant performance of maternal feeling. For whose benefit, I wondered. Was she trying to convince Max what a good mother she had been?

  “Has the Prince of Wales already arrived?” I asked.

  “He has. He came last night with his—uh—companion,” she said, giving me a knowing look. “But they are out on the lake on a friend’s yacht. You’ll see them at dinner.” Camilla stood aside and invited me to enter through the French door. I stepped into a room that would have made Buckingham Palace look dowdy. I had been in some grand rooms in my time, but this was one of the grandest. The ceiling was high and painted in gold and blue. The furniture was gilt, upholstered in pale blue silk brocade. There was a similar patterned silk wallpaper on walls that were lined with old masters—scenes of Venice by Tintoretto, and then various religious subjects by painters I should have known. There were Persian rugs on a white marble floor and huge displays of flowers on low tables. Camilla wove her way past groups of furniture and floral displays as if she didn’t even notice them, and we moved from the room into a long hallway.

  I think I gasped. It was like a miniature Versailles, lined with mirrors and stretching the whole length of the house.

  “How magnificent,” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, it is rather grand,” she said. “But nothing to compare with the palazzo in Rome. I must say it took me a while to get used to this sort of over-the-top decorating. It’s like perpetually living in a museum. Our house in England is quite large but also quite plain. I expect yours is too.”

  “Compared to this, absolutely.” We exchanged a grin of understanding. I realized then that she might be welcoming me as an ally.

  “We’ve come a long way since Les Oiseaux, haven’t we?” she said.

  “You certainly have,” I said. “I still don’t have a home of my own. I feel like the poor relation when I stay with my brother.”

  “How beastly,” she said, just before I added, “But I am engaged to be married, if all goes well.”

  “Goes well?” She raised an eyebrow as she led me along this hallway to a broad flight of marble stairs.

  “We have to get official permission from the king and Parliament,” I said. “I’m marrying a Catholic.”

  “Are you? Gosh, what an annoying complication. Do you think they’ll say yes?”

  “The queen seems to think so. If they don’t, we’ll go and live somewhere else,” I said. “It’s not as if the king doesn’t have plenty of sons and will soon have plenty of grandchildren.”

  “How true. So have you snapped up a dashing European prince?”

  “A dashing Irishman.”

  “Interesting. So will you live in Ireland?”

  “I’m not sure. The family does have a castle, but Darcy is away a lot. Maybe just a flat in London most of the time.”

  “Darcy?” she asked, looking genuinely interested now. “Darcy O’Mara?”

  “Yes, do you know him?”

  “My dear, our mothers were related. We’ll be cousins of some sort. I’m surprised he is going to settle down. I always thought of him as the ultimate man-about-town. Another Rudi.” She gave me an approving smile. “Well done. You’ve tamed a tiger.”

  “I hope so,” I said, but the words echoed in my head. Another Rudi. Golly, I hope not. And it did cross my mind that her husband, Paolo, had certainly been no saint before his marriage. Had he given her cause for worry since?

  She led me up a curved marble staircase, then along an upper hall, also hung with mirrors and family portraits, many of them apparently of cardinals and a couple of popes. Then she opened a door at the far end.

  “I’ve put you in here. Nice and quiet and relatively simple.” I followed her into a room I would never have described as relatively simple! But it certainly was lovely, with windows on two sides, looking out over formal gardens, high trimmed box hedges, a fountain, banks of azaleas. It had a white canopy bed, piled high with silk quilts, an armchair in front of a marble fireplace, a dear little gilded writing desk in the window and an enormous carved wardrobe that took up most of the inside wall. I couldn’t help thinking that my poor suitcase of clothing would look completely lost in a piece of furniture that size, also that it would have been perfect for games of sardines.

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll be relieved to get out of those travel-worn clothes,” she said, eyeing my suit. “Have you just arrived from London?”

  I wasn’t going to give away that Belinda lived close by. “Just from the Swiss part of the lake,” I said. “My friend is in a clinic there.”

  “Oh dear. TB, I suppose. Everyone comes to Switzerland for TB.”

  I made a sort of grunt of agreement. Let them think TB rather than the truth.

  “It’s kind of you to come and visit her. I take it she’s no longer contagious?” She gave me a nervous glance as if I might be a carrier of the plague.

  “Oh no. She’s not contagious,” I said. “Just very bored.”

  “Anyone I know?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said hurriedly. “And of course she doesn’t want it known that she’s recovering in a clinic.”

  “Naturally. Quite understandable.” She looked up as there was a tap on the door. “Ah, here is Raimondo with your bags.”

  A burly young man in elaborate footman’s livery brought in my suitcase, placed it on the floor, bowed, muttered, “Contessa,” and went again.

  “Now, about a maid,” Camilla said. “You didn’t bring one.”

  “No, I’m afraid my new Irish maid had complete h
ysterics when she found out she had to go abroad, so I had to leave her behind.”

  “Her Majesty asked me to find a local girl for you, but actually I’m going to share my maid, Gerda. She’s incredibly efficient and can handle two of us with ease.” She glanced toward the door in case someone might be listening. “Between ourselves, she is almost frighteningly efficient. She’s Austrian but has worked for several distinguished families in London so her English is good. I haven’t had her long. I was so lucky to find her. My former maid, Monique, who was terribly sweet, met with a horrible accident recently. She was French, you know, and a trifle absentminded. Never could quite get used to the idea that traffic was on the wrong side of the road and she stepped out in front of a bus one day. So upsetting. But fortunately a friend recommended Gerda. Her mistress had just died suddenly, so it suited both of us.” She had been walking around the room as she spoke, straightening a hand mirror on the dressing table, pulling back the net curtain . . . She seemed ill at ease.

  “You know I really don’t have to stay if my being here is one complication too many, Camilla,” I found myself saying.

  She turned then and came over to me, putting a tentative hand on my arm. “No, Georgie. I’m actually really glad you’re here. Just like old times, eh?” And she put on a bright smile.

  Chapter 10

  SUNDAY, APRIL 21, 1935

  VILLA FIORI, LAKE MAGGIORE, ITALY

  Well, I’ve arrived at a frightfully impressive villa. More like a palace, actually. Not only is the Prince of Wales here but my mother too! And such an effusive greeting! What on earth can she want?

  As soon as I was left alone in the room I took off my jacket, laid it on the bed, admired the view to the mountains from the side window, then went over to the French doors that opened onto a little balcony with an ironwork chair and table. Jasmine and wisteria had climbed up to the balcony and spilled over it, sending out a heady scent. I took in the formal gardens with their topiary hedges. I glimpsed a swimming pool and behind it grounds that rose in a series of formal terraces, decorated with statues before woodlands took over the top of the estate. Quite delightful. I decided I might enjoy myself here after all. There was that gardener with his shirt off. I saw him look up as if he sensed my presence and ducked inside the room just as a voice behind me said imperiously, “You wish me to unpack your clothes, Lady Georgiana? I am Gerda Stretzl, the contessa’s maid.”