Royal Spy 01 - Her Royal Spyness

by Rhys Bowen

  We looked at each other and started to laugh.

  “I do remember,” I said.

  “And now she’s marrying Roland Aston-Poley. Military family. Which means she’s gone from being Primrose

  Asquey d’Asquey to being Primrose Roly Poley. Not a happy choice, if you ask me.”

  I laughed with her.

  “So you’re part of Roly’s brigade then,” she said. “I didn’t realize you had army connections.”

  “Not really.” I started to blush again, then grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the main crush of guests. “Actually I’m here with an extraordinary chap. Darcy O’Mara. Do you know him?”

  “Can’t say that I do. Point him out to me.”

  “Over there by that flower arrangement.”

  “I say. Not bad. You can introduce me anytime you want to. Tell me all about him.”

  “That’s just it,” I whispered. “I’m not really sure if he’s who he claims to be or a confidence trickster.”

  “Has he asked you to lend him money?”

  “No.”

  “Then he’s probably all right. Who does he say he is?”

  “Lord Kilhenny’s son. Irish baron.”

  “There’s a million of them. I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment. So he’s the one who knows Roly?”

  I leaned even closer. “He doesn’t know either of them. We’re gate-crashers. Apparently he does this sort of thing often, just to get a free meal. It’s shocking, isn’t it? I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  To my horror, she started to laugh. When she had controlled her mirth, she leaned toward me. “I’ll let you into a little secret. I’m doing exactly the same thing. I wasn’t invited either.”

  “Belinda! How could you?”

  “Easily. Exactly the same way you could. My face is sort of familiar. I’m seen at Ascot and the opera, so nobody ever questions whether I was invited or not. It works wonderfully.”

  “But you said you were doing so well in your career.”

  She made a face. “Not all that well, actually. It’s tough to start up a business, especially if you want to design clothes for the fashionable set. They never want to pay, you see. They gush over the dress I’ve designed for them and tell me they positively adore it and I’m the cleverest person they’ve ever met. Then they wear it to the opera and when I remind them they haven’t paid, they point out that they have been advertising my dress just by wearing it and I should be grateful. I’m sometimes owed several hundred pounds, and the fabrics are not cheap.”

  “How awful for you.”

  “It’s difficult,” she agreed, “because if I make a fuss and upset one of them, she’ll tell the rest of her set and they’ll drop me like a hot potato.”

  I did see that this was likely to happen. “So what are you going to do? You can’t keep financing their new clothes forever.”

  “I’m hoping for the big break, I suppose. If one of the royal family—or one of the Prince of Wales’s lady friends—decides she likes my dresses, then everyone in the world will want them. That’s where you could be most helpful, you know. If you are going to be mingling with your royal cousin and his set, I’ll lend you one of my designs to wear and you can gush about me.”

  “I wouldn’t guarantee that my cousin’s women would pay up any quicker than your current clients,” I said. “But I don’t mind trying for you. Especially if it allows me to wear a slinky new dress.”

  “Splendid!” Belinda beamed at me.

  “I’m sorry you’re going through such a tough time,” I said.

  “Oh, there are a few honest ones among them—mostly old money, you know. Properly brought up, like you. It’s those dreadful nouveau riche women who try to wriggle out of paying. I could name one society belle who looked me straight in the eye and insisted she had already paid, when she knew as well as I did that she hadn’t. They’re just not like us, darling.”

  I squeezed her arm. “At least you are out and about in society. You’re bound to meet a rich and handsome man and then your money worries will be over.”

  “So will you, darling. So will you.” She glanced across the room. “I take it that handsome Irish peer’s son does not come with a fortune?”

  “Penniless,” I said.

  “Dear me. Not a wise choice then, in spite of his looks. Although after last night’s little conversation about sex lives, he might be just the one to . . .”

  “Belinda!” I hissed as Darcy was making in our direction. “I’ve only just met him and I have no intention—”

  “We never have, darling. That’s just the problem. We never have.” Belinda turned to meet Darcy with an angelic smile.

  The afternoon went on. Smoked salmon came around, and shrimp and sausage rolls and savory éclairs. My spirits began to rise with the champagne intake until I was actually enjoying myself. Darcy had vanished into the crowd and I was standing alone when I noticed a potted palm tree swaying by itself as if in a strong wind. Since no wind is allowed to blow through ballrooms at Grosvenor House I was intrigued. I made my way to the corner and peered around the palm tree. A vision in alarming royal purple satin stood there, holding on to the palm tree as it swayed. What’s more, I recognized her. It was another old school chum, Marisa Pauncefoot-Young, daughter of the Earl of Malmsbury.

  “Marisa,” I hissed.

  She attempted to focus on me. “Oh, hello, Georgie. What are you doing here?”

  “More to the point, what exactly are you doing—dancing with a palm tree?”

  “No, I came over all dizzy so I thought I’d retire to a quiet corner, but the damned tree won’t stay still.”

  “Marisa,” I said severely, “you’re drunk.”

  “I fear so.” She sighed. “It was all Primrose’s fault. She insisted on having a very boozy breakfast to pluck up courage before the ceremony and then I got rather depressed all of a sudden and champagne does have a wonderful way of lifting the spirits, doesn’t it?”

  I took her arm. “Come on, come with me. We’ll find somewhere to sit and get you some black coffee.”

  I led her out of the ballroom and found two gilt chairs in a hallway. Then I hailed a passing waiter. “Lady Marisa isn’t feeling well,” I whispered. “Do you think you could rustle up some black coffee for her?”

  Black coffee appeared instantly. Marisa sipped and shuddered alternately. “Why can’t I ever be a happy drunk?” she demanded. “One too many and my legs won’t hold me up any longer. This is very sweet of you, Georgie. I didn’t even know you were coming.”

  “Neither did I until the last moment,” I said truthfully. “So tell me, why were you so depressed?”

  “Look at me.” She made a dramatic gesture at herself. “I look as if I’ve been swallowed by a particularly unpleasant variety of boa constrictor.”

  She wasn’t wrong. The dress was long, tight, and purple. Since Marisa has no figure to speak of and is almost six feet tall, the effect was something like a shiny purple drainpipe.

  “And I thought Primrose was my friend,” she said. “I was flattered when she invited me to be bridesmaid, but now I see that she only did it because we are cousins and she had to, so she made damn sure that I wouldn’t outshine her going up the aisle. Actually I could hardly totter up the aisle, due to the tight skirt. And it was so dark in St. Margaret’s that I bet I looked like a floating head with a couple of disembodied arms on either side clutching this hideous bouquet. I’m not going to forgive her in a hurry.”

  She sighed and drained the last of the black coffee. “And then I got here and I thought at least being bridesmaid usually has its perks. You know, a quick kiss and cuddle with an usher behind the potted palms. But look at them—not a single grab and grope among the lot of them. Most of them are Roly’s older brothers, and they’ve all brought their wives along. And the others are not that way inclined—daisy boys, you know.”

  “You mean pansy boys,” I said.

  “Do I? Well, you know what I’m getting at
, don’t you?

  So not the teeniest bit of titillation all afternoon. No wonder I turned to drink. It was good of you to rescue me.”

  “Not at all. What are school friends for?”

  “We did have fun at Les Oiseaux, didn’t we? I still miss it sometimes, and all the old friends. I haven’t seen you in ages. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Oh, this and that,” I said. “I’m newly arrived in town and I’m hunting for a suitable job.”

  “Lucky you. I do envy you. I’m stuck at home with Mummy. She hasn’t been too well, you know, and she won’t hear of my going off to London alone. How I’m ever going to meet a potential husband, I can’t think. The season was a hopeless failure, wasn’t it? All those dreadful clod-hopping country types who held us as if we were sacks of potatoes. At least Mummy is talking about taking a place in Nice for the rest of the spring. I certainly wouldn’t say no to a French count. They have those wonderful droopy come-to-bed eyes.”

  She looked up as a burst of applause came from the ballroom.

  “Oh, dear. They’ve started the speeches. I should be there, I suppose, when Whiffy proposes a toast to the bridesmaids.”

  “Do you think you can stand without swaying now?”

  “I’ll try.”

  I helped her to her feet and she tottered uncertainly back into the ballroom. I slipped into the back of the crowd, which now clustered around the podium with the cake.

  The cake was cut and distributed. Speeches began. I was also beginning to feel the effects of three glasses of champagne on a relatively empty stomach. There is nothing worse than speeches about someone you don’t know, made by someone you don’t know. How my royal kin manage to sit there, day after day, and look interested through one deadly dull speech after another inspires my highest admiration. I looked for Darcy but couldn’t see him, so I prowled the back of the crowd, hoping to find a chair I might sit on unobtrusively. The only chairs were occupied by elderly ladies and an extremely ancient colonel with a wooden leg. Then I thought I spotted the back of Darcy’s head and I moved back into the crowd again.

  “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, pray raise your glasses for the loyal toast,” the toastmaster boomed out.

  I accepted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. As I was raising it, my elbow was jogged violently and the champagne splashed up into my face and down my front. Before I could do any more than gasp I heard a voice saying, “I’m most frightfully sorry. Here, let me get you a napkin.” Like many young men of our class, he could not, or would not, say the letter r and pronounced it “fwightfully.”

  He reached across to a nearby table and handed me a piece of linen.

  “That’s a tray cloth,” I said.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “It’s all I could find.”

  I dabbed at my face with the tray cloth and was now able to focus on him. He was tall and slim, like an overgrown schoolboy who is wearing his big brother’s morning suit. An attempt had been made to slick down his dark brown hair but it still flopped in boyish fashion across his forehead and his earnest brown eyes were now pleading with me in a way that reminded me of a spaniel I once had.

  “I’ve ruined your lovely dress. I really am the most clumsy ox,” he went on as he watched me dry myself off. “I’m absolutely hopeless at events like this. The moment I put on a morning suit or a dinner jacket, I am positively guaranteed to spill something, trip over my shoelaces, or generally make an utter fool of myself. I’m thinking of becoming a hermit and living in a cave somewhere on a mountaintop. In Scotland, maybe.”

  I had to laugh at that. “I don’t think you’ll find the food is as good,” I pointed out. “And I think you’d find a Scottish cave incredibly cold and drafty. Trust me, I know whereof I speak.”

  “You do have a point.” He observed me and then said, “I say, I think I know who you are.”

  This was not good. It was bound to happen, I suppose. Just in case things got awkward, I tried to spot Darcy in the crowd. However, I was completely unprepared for what the young man said next: “I believe that you and I are related.”

  I went through a quick mental list of cousins, second cousins, and second cousins once removed.

  “Really?” I said.

  “Well, sort of related. At least, not actually related, but your mother was once married to my guardian, and we played together when we were little. I’m Tristram Hautbois, Sir Hubert Anstruther’s ward.”

  All I could think was what terrible twist of fate had christened somebody Tristram who could not say his rs properly. He pronounced it “Twistwam.”

  “We ran through the fountains naked, apparently,” I said.

  His face lit up. “You remember it too? We thought we’d get into frightful trouble, because a lot of important people had been invited to tea on the lawns, but my guardian thought it was frightfully funny.” His face became solemn again. “You’ve heard what’s happened, I suppose. Poor old Sir Hubert’s had a terrible accident. He’s in a coma in a Swiss hospital. They don’t expect him to live.”

  “I only heard about it this morning,” I said. “I’m very sorry. I remember him as such a nice man.”

  “Oh, he was. One of the best. So good to me, you know, even though I was only a distant relative. My mother was his mother’s cousin. You knew his mother was French, I suppose. Well, my parents were killed in the Great War and he took frightful risks coming over to France to rescue me. He has raised me as if I were his own son. I owe him a huge debt of gratitude that I’ll never be able to repay now.”

  “So you’re actually French, not English?”

  “I am, but I’m afraid my mastery of the language is no better than the average schoolboy’s. I can just about manage ‘la plume de ma tante’ and all that. Shameful, really, but I was only two years old when I was brought to Eynsleigh. It’s a lovely house, isn’t it? One of the prettiest in England. Do you remember it well?”

  “Hardly at all. I have a vague memory of the lawns and those fountains, and wasn’t there a fat little pony?”

  “Squibbs. You tried to make him jump over a log and he bucked you off.”

  “So he did.”

  We looked at each other and smiled. I had thought him the usual run-of-the-mill mindless twit until now, but the smile lit up his whole face and made him look quite appealing.

  “So what will happen to the house if Sir Hubert dies?” I asked.

  “Sold, I expect. He has no children of his own to inherit. I am the closest he has to a son, but he never officially adopted me, unfortunately.”

  “What are you doing with yourself now?”

  “I’ve just come down from Oxford and Sir Hubert arranged for me to be articled to a solicitor in Bromley in Kent, of all places. I’m not sure that I’m cut out for the law, but my guardian wanted me to have a stable profession, so I suppose I’ve got to stick with it. Frankly I’d much rather be off on adventures and expeditions like him.”

  “A little more dangerous,” I pointed out.

  “But not boring. How about you?”

  “I’ve just arrived in London and I’m not sure what I’m going to be doing with myself. It’s not quite as easy for me to just go out and get a job.”

  “No, I suppose it wouldn’t be,” he said. “Look, now that you’re in London, maybe we can do some exploring together. I happen to know the city quite well and I’d be delighted to show you around.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “I’m staying at the family home. Rannoch House on Belgrave Square.”

  “And I’m in digs in Bromley,” he said. “A slight difference.”

  Another young man in a morning coat approached. “Buck up, old thing,” he said to Tristram. “We need all the grooms-men outside toot sweet. We’ve got to sabotage the car before they drive away.”

  “Oh, right. Coming.” Tristram gave me an apologetic smile. “Duty calls,” he said. “I do hope we meet again soon.”

  At that moment Darcy appeared.
“Are you ready to go, Georgie? The bride and groom are about to leave and I thought . . .” He broke off when he saw I was standing beside Tristram. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. How are you, Hautbois?”

  “Pretty fair. And yourself, O’Mara?”

  “Can’t complain. Will you excuse us? I have to take Georgie home.”

  “I turn into a pumpkin at six o’clock,” I attempted to joke.

  “I look forward to seeing you again, Lady Georgiana,” Tristram said formally.

  As Darcy turned away and attempted to fight his way through the crowd to the door, Tristram grabbed my arm. “Watch out for O’Mara,” he whispered. “He’s a bit of a cad. Not quite trustworthy.”