by Rhys Bowen
“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.”
“Who will be considerably better in bed than anything she has at the moment,” said a voice in my ear and there was my mother, looking stunning in peacock blue, complete with a ruff of peacock feathers. “And what’s all this nonsense about Binky? If he killed anybody I’d have expected it to be Fig.”
“It’s not funny, Mother. He could be hanged.”
“They don’t hang dukes, darling. He’d be let off by reason of insanity. Everyone knows the upper classes are batty.”
“But he didn’t do it.”
“Of course he didn’t. He’s just not the violent type. He used to throw up every time the hounds got at the fox.”
“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked, for once delighted to see her.
“Max has business connections with Lord Mountjoy. They’re in the armaments game together, and he also hunts with HRH, so here we are,” she said. “Come and meet Max. His English is atrocious, I’m afraid.”
“And you don’t speak German, do you? So how do you manage?”
She laughed, that delightful, infectious laugh that had filled theaters. “My darling, one doesn’t always need to talk.”
She slipped her arm through mine and led me over to a stocky but imposing blond-haired man, who was deep in conversation with the prince and Lord Mountjoy.
“Ya, de vild boar,” we heard him say. “Bang bang.”
“See what I mean?” my mother whispered. “A definite deficiency there. But the sex is heavenly.”
The mention of sex reminded me of a pressing question. “I wonder who is supposed to escort me in to dinner tonight? I do hope it won’t be Lord Mountjoy. I hate having to make polite conversation to older people.”
“I gather he’s escorting that awful American woman,” my mother whispered. “Just as if she were officially with you know who. Poor old Mr. S, whom you’ll notice skulking in the background over there, will be forced to make his own way in at the end of the procession. Damned bad form, I call it.”
“Then it looks as if I’ll be stuck with either Whiffy Featherstonehaugh or Tristram. Hardly scintillating conversation.”
“Poor little Tristram. How’s he holding up?”
“All right, I suppose. He asked me to marry him.”
She laughed. “That’s awful. Almost like incest. You had the same nanny, for God’s sake. Still, I suppose he might be a good catch if poor old Hubie does die.”
“Mother, he’s very sweet, but can you imagine being married to him?”
“Frankly, no. But I thought Lady Mountjoy had said that they’d invited a partner for you.”
At that moment the double doors opened, and the butler stepped into the room and announced, “His Serene Highness, Prince Siegfried of Romania.”
Siegfried, his pale blond hair slicked down, his military evening jacket adorned with more orders and medals than any general’s, strode into the room, marched up to Lady Mountjoy, clicked his heels, and bowed. “So kind,” he said. From her he went over to the Prince of Wales and clicked his heels again. They exchanged words in German and then Siegfried was brought over to me.
“I believe you already know Lady Georgiana, Your Highness?”
“Naturally. We meet again at last.” He bent to kiss my hand with those large, cold fish-lips. “You have been well, I trust?”
I was seething. The crafty old thing, I thought. She didn’t want me to spy on David at all. She planned this so that I would be thrust together with Siegfried again. She knew I’d wriggled out of the encounter in Scotland and she simply wasn’t going to let me escape. Well, you could lead a horse to water, but you can’t make her marry anyone she loathes.
I had, however, been well brought up. I was polite and attentive as Siegfried talked about himself. “I had brilliant skiing this winter. Where do you ski these days? I myself am a magnificent skier. I know no fear.”
The dinner gong sounded and we formed up to parade into the dining room. I, of course, was paired with Siegfried, right behind the prince and Lady Mountjoy. We took our places and my eyes strayed around the table. Who had been devious enough to tie that black thread across those stairs? It was a miracle I was still alive. If I had landed slightly differently, that ax would have come crashing down on me or I’d have broken my neck. I stared at Whiffy then Tristram. Neither one was what I’d call a live wire when it came to brains. But Belinda—she had been one of the cleverest girls in school. I shook my head in disbelief. Why on earth would Belinda want me dead?
There was one place still vacant at table. The moment I noticed it the door opened again.
“The Honorable Darcy O’Mara,” the butler announced and Darcy came in, looking dashing in his dinner suit.
“Mr. O’Mara,” Lady Mountjoy said as he presented himself to her with apologies. “You managed it after all. I am so glad. Do sit down. They are only just serving the soup.”
Darcy cast me the briefest of glances as he sat opposite me, then started talking to Marisa on his left. I felt that my cheeks were flaming. What was he doing here? Who had invited him and why?
Over the polite murmur of conversation I heard Mrs. Simpson’s strident voice. “So let me get this straight. Does one now have to call you ‘Frau’ or ‘your ladyship,’ or are you simply ‘Mrs.’?”
She was, of course, addressing my mother, who had unwisely been seated within firing range.
“Simply ‘Mrs.,’ ” my mother said sweetly, “and how about you? Are you still married to anybody?”
There was a moment’s frosty silence before the table went back to talk of the weather and the next day’s game of golf.
“Tomorrow we shall go out riding, do you think?” Siegfried asked me. “Myself I ride magnificently. I am a magnificent horseman. I know no fear.”
This couldn’t be happening to me. I was trapped in a room with my mother, Mrs. Simpson, Fish-Lips, Darcy, and/ or someone who was trying to kill me. How much worse could things get?
Somehow I survived dinner. The redeeming feature was the magnificent food. For one who had been living on baked beans, there was one heady course after the next—turtle soup followed by sole Veronique followed by squab followed by roast beef followed by charlotte russe followed by anchovies on toast. I was amazed at the amount I was able to eat, given my nervous state. And wine to accompany each course.
I noted that Mrs. Simpson picked at her food and cast glances in the direction of the prince, who was doing a lot of cow-eyed gazing in her direction.
“I’m afraid I have to eat like a sparrow these days or I put on weight,” she commented to those around her. “You’re so lucky. Germans like their women fat.” This last remark addressed to my mother, of course.
“In which case I should eat up if I were you,” my mother said, glancing at the prince whose royal ancestor included the Elector of Hanover and Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. She was clearly enjoying herself. I was relieved when Lady Mountjoy indicated that the ladies
should withdraw and we followed her into the drawing room where coffee awaited us. My mother and Mrs. Simpson, now already sworn enemies, were still exchanging the most deliciously honeyed barbs. I would have enjoyed observing this spectacle, but Belinda was sitting beside me, offering to put cream and sugar into my coffee. I declined both.
“But I thought you always claimed that black coffee at night kept you awake,” she said.
I looked across at my mother. Could I count on her as an ally? As a mother she hadn’t exactly fulfilled the role, but surely she’d want to protect her only child. The men arrived soon after.
“David, come and sit here.” Mrs. Simpson patted the sofa beside her. There was an almost discernible gasp from the rest of the party. Princes are “sir” in public, even to their closest friends. His Highness just smiled and hurried to perch on the arm at her side. Mr. Simpson was nowhere in sight. Gone to play billiards, so I was told. Darcy settled himself between Marisa and Imogen and didn’t once look in my direction.
