by Rhys Bowen
“Darcy, no.” I stepped between them. “Look, there was nothing in this. This is Craig Hart—”
“Oh, I know who he is.” Darcy gave a bitter laugh. “He’s rich. He’s famous. You’re naïve. No wonder you were swept off your feet.”
I was angry now, and just a little tickled too. Darcy was actually jealous. I savored the notion before I went on. “I was about to say that Mr. Hart is kindly looking after me while my mother is filming. He took me out to dinner and was just escorting me back to my front door. Over here in Hollywood people hug and kiss all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.” I turned back to Craig. “I’m sorry about this, Mr. Hart. Thank you for a lovely dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Craig grinned and touched my cheek with his finger. “So long, sweetheart. Sweet dreams. And don’t let this guy boss you around. You do what you want.”
He sauntered away, leaving Darcy standing there, still glaring at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But there really was nothing to worry about. I made it quite clear to him that I wasn’t interested.”
Darcy was shaking his head. “I’m trying to come to terms with this. I leave my sweet but innocent young lady, shy and awkward around men, for a couple of weeks. I come back and she is calmly dating one of the world’s hottest heartthrobs and telling him she isn’t interested. Has someone I don’t know taken over Georgie’s body?”
I laughed then. “I don’t understand it either. My mother and I were introduced to him and he made a beeline for me and not Mummy. So of course I wasn’t going to turn down the chance to be wined and dined by him. It was such a feather in my cap when my mother is always telling me how plain and gawky I am.”
“She is?”
“All the time. ‘You poor child. Too bad you didn’t inherit my looks.’ She even said, ‘I wonder what Darcy sees in you.’”
“Then she’s blind if she doesn’t see it too,” he said. “I knew she was completely self-centered, but I’d no idea she was catty too.”
“She’s an actress. It goes with the territory,” I said.
“Your mother and my father. What a pair.” He grimaced.
“Have you seen him lately?”
“No, but I got a letter before I sailed. It said, ‘Isn’t it about time you made something of yourself? You can’t expect to inherit anything other than the title from me, and since I plan to live a damned long time you won’t get that anytime soon.’”
I slipped my hand into his. “It’s good to have horrid parents in common,” I said, “but what are you doing here? You didn’t come all this way just to see me, did you?”
“If I had the kind of money my father spent as a young man I would have answered yes to that. But as it happens I’m still on the trail of our jewel thief.”
“Golly,” I said before I remembered not to. “So did you find the princess’s jewel and that woman’s diamond when we were searched leaving the ship?”
Darcy shook his head. “We found nothing. I didn’t think we would.”
“And the princess really was genuine?”
“I’ve no doubt about it.”
“And you didn’t find any clue as to what was thrown overboard? Not a body?”
“We’ve still no idea about that either. Nobody seemed to be missing, unless it was a stowaway who met a bad end.”
“Or a stowaway who killed someone on the boat and took his place? Or her place?” I gave him a knowing look. “Remember I suggested that at the time.”
Darcy frowned. “If you’re meaning the princess again, she was who she claimed to be. I’m sure.”
“Did you speak to her? I was rather tempted to go and visit the Astors myself but they were in Newport, Rhode Island.”
Darcy gave me an exasperated look. “I contacted the Astors, who verified that she had arrived safely. I’m sure they’d know if she was an impostor. But if it was anyone else who was murdered and thrown overboard . . . I don’t know how they’d ever find out. In the absence of a body that is now fish bait.”
“Don’t.” I shivered. “I keep thinking of that long hair floating out on the surface of the ocean.”
He touched my shoulder gently, giving it a little squeeze. “Maybe you were mistaken. It was a long way down from where you were standing, wasn’t it?”
I nodded and was silent for a moment before I asked, “So what makes you think your thief has come out here?”
Darcy looked around at the gardens, now bathed in shadow. Then he lowered his voice. “The answer is that I don’t know. But I’ve a couple of things to go on. We found a fingerprint on the doorjamb of Princess Promila’s suite. It was smudged but it looks as if it could belong to Stella Brightwell.”
“You still think she could be the thief? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I agree, but your grandfather would tell you there is no such thing as coincidence. And one of the few details we have to go on is that Stella Brightwell was present on every occasion that the thief struck. She is the only person who fits that bill.”
“If it was her fingerprint on Princess Promila’s doorjamb, that doesn’t really prove anything, does it?” I said. “They were fellow first class passengers. Tablemates. What was to stop Stella from popping in to see the princess for a chat or a drink?”
“Nothing, except the princess claims that Stella never visited her suite. Nobody did. She’s a very private person.”
“Interesting. And what is the other clue that brought you here?”
“Someone tried to contact a major American gangster who is also a big-time fencer of stolen property. He’s currently in Las Vegas, Nevada, and the letter to him came from Los Angeles, from someone who had a ruby to sell.”
“I see. Have you seen the letter? Any clues from it?”
Darcy shook his head. “I haven’t seen it yet. But it was typed on a standard sort of machine and no fingerprints, so I’m told.”
“So what’s your next step? Can you lay a trap to pretend to be the fence and catch the thief that way?”
“We tried. Didn’t work. Our burglar is not stupid. He or she must have sensed the trap and didn’t show up.”
“So what now?”
“I want to know why the thief has traveled out to California,” Darcy said. “One thought is that Cy Goldman has just bought a couple of valuable pieces from Spain.”
“Oh yes. The candlesticks encrusted with jewels and the El Greco painting.”
“He told quite a lot of people on the ship, apparently.”
“If your thief really is Stella Brightwell, there is no way she’s going to steal from Cy Goldman. He’s her lover.”
“Probably true. But if it was someone associated with Stella Brightwell? If she works with an accomplice, perhaps? I gather Goldman is taking these Spanish treasures up to his castle when he goes.”
“Which is this weekend,” I said.
“It is? Are you sure?”
“Mr. Goldman announced today that he was taking everyone to his castle on Friday. Mrs. Goldman is coming out to see what he’s just had shipped from Spain. He’s planning a house party. He didn’t want to be up there alone with her, I suspect.”
Darcy grinned. “So do you think you can secure me an invitation? I’d rather not let Goldman know the real reason, just in case he passes it along to Stella Brightwell.”
“I’ll take you to the studio with me in the morning, if you like,” I said. “They send a car for me.”
Darcy shook his head. “I love the casual way you say that. Now I’ll never be able to keep you in the style to which you’ve become accustomed.”
I reached up and touched his cheek, feeling the bristles of stubble where he hadn’t shaved for a while. “This is not the sort of life I’d ever want, trust me.”
His fingers closed over my hand. “Oh, Georgie,” he said. “Why is ever
ything so damned difficult?”
“It will get better,” I said, slipping my arms around his neck. “I could always have a prolonged affair with Craig Hart and allow him to ply me with diamonds.”
“You little minx.” He pulled me close to him. “Was that really just a friendly ‘thank you for dinner’ kiss? It didn’t look like it to me.”
“On my part it was a ‘how do I get out of this without making a public fuss’ sort of kiss. And actually it was quite chaste. Almost like a required stage kiss. Now your kisses, on the other hand . . .”
“Like this, you mean?” he asked and demonstrated. Things might have progressed a little further if a couple hadn’t strolled past us, laughing at a private joke. We broke apart.
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
“An awful little fleapit near the train station,” Darcy said. “I have only just arrived. And I don’t think my expenses would cover this place.”
“I’d invite you to my bungalow, but I’m sharing with my mother.”
“A bedroom? With your mother? Never.”
“No, silly. We have a bedroom each but there aren’t any spare beds.”
“I don’t mind sharing.” His eyes were glinting in the torchlight, teasing me now.
“I wouldn’t mind either, but there’s a nasty newspaper reporter who was on the ship plus a Hollywood gossip columnist prowling around.”
“Don’t worry. I can survive where I am—especially if you can get me included in the trip to the castle.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
He nodded. “I’ll be here.”
A sudden thought struck me. “You could always have Queenie’s bed.”
He laughed. “Share with Queenie? No thank you. I’m not that desperate.”
“No. She’s gone. Left me for greener pastures. Some woman who has always wanted an English maid offered her good money.”
Darcy was still laughing. “Does she know what she’s letting herself in for?”
“Who—Queenie or the woman?”
“Both, I should think. So thank you for your kind offer but I rather think it’s wiser not to.”
He brushed my cheek with his lips, ruffled my hair and was gone.
Chapter 16
FRIDAY, AUGUST 3, 1934
Off to Mr. Goldman’s castle. It should be fun.
In the morning there was a tap on my door. I leaped to open it, expecting it to be Darcy, but instead it was Algie.
“I thought I’d cadge a ride again, old sport,” he said.
“Weren’t you supposed to be on set with the rest of them at six?” I asked, deciding that I now actively disliked him.
“Dash it all, Georgie. A fellow wasn’t raised to go down a coal mine or to milk cows. Or to be on film sets at the crack of dawn. Besides, what kind of script consultation would they need at that ungodly hour?”
“Algie?” I shook my head. “If they actually needed advice on their script do you know anything at all about the Tudors? Are you actually related to them in any way?”
He had the grace to blush. “Well, you know, old thing, most old families can trace links to anybody they like. And I know that Henry the Eighth had eight wives.”
“Six wives,” I said.
“Did he? I thought it was eight.”
I suspected Algie wouldn’t last long at his post. But at that moment my thoughts were turned elsewhere as I saw Darcy coming toward us. Algie frowned. “What’s that O’Mara chap doing here?”
“Coming with us to the studio, since he happens to be my young man and he’s come all this way to see me. Isn’t that romantic?”
Algie was still frowning. “I thought they didn’t allow visitors on the set,” he muttered.
“Darcy doesn’t need to be on the set, but I do want him to come to the castle with me.”
“What oh,” Darcy called, coming up to us. He frowned as he noticed Algie. “Broxley-Foggett, isn’t it? Didn’t you vomit all over the quad when you first came up to Oxford? Right in front of the master too?”
Algie winced at the memory.
“What are you doing out here?” Darcy asked, staring at Algie so that they looked like two aggressive dogs who had just met.
“He’s the script consultant and expert on the Tudors,” I said.
“The Tudors? In what way?”
“Well, you know, old chap, family history and all that.”
“If anyone should be an expert then it’s me. My great great great and many more greats grandmother was Henry the Eighth’s sister.”
“We’ll mention that when you meet Mr. Goldman,” I said, slipping my arm through his. “It will be a good feather in your cap.”
“I say, won’t that make him want to chuck me out?” Algie asked.
“Probably. Unless your great great and many greats grandfather was Henry the Eighth himself,” I said, giving Darcy a grin. “I’ll summon the car.”
We rode to the studio in uncomfortable silence. Algie was clearly put out by Darcy’s appearance and I wondered if he might have secret designs on me. I remembered the unpleasant kiss on the boat. We reached the studio, sneaked in and stood in darkness near the door to watch Stella, Juan and Mummy in a particularly tense scene. Stella looked anything but an eighteen-year-old virgin. Juan kept stumbling over his words and Mr. Goldman was about to explode.
“Take a break,” he said at last. “Get a coffee. Snort some cocaine. Anything to get this goddamned scene finished.”
He came stalking toward us and stopped short when he saw Darcy. I braced myself for another explosion when he said, “And who is this?”
“The honorable Darcy O’Mara, son of Lord Kilhenny and my young man,” I said. “What’s more, a direct descendent of Henry the Eighth’s sister.”
“Is he?” He was prowling around Darcy as if he were a new and fascinating antique. “Interesting. That look—real aristocratic. He may be just what I’m looking for right now. Can you act, young man?”
“Act? I’ve never tried,” Darcy said, looking amused. “Apart from acting as if I were fascinated at boring dinner parties.”
Goldman threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Did you hear that voice? And those looks. Just what we need. Young man, I’m going to make you a star. Come with me.”
He dragged the surprised Darcy across the set to where Stella was having makeup reapplied, Mummy was sipping a coffee and Juan was sulking. “Look what I found, ladies,” Cy exclaimed. “He’s what we need for Don Alonso. A real thoroughbred aristocrat. You can’t fake breeding.”
“But what about Juan?” Stella demanded. “You can’t just throw him out after bringing him all this way.”
“I’m not throwing him out. I think the boy will be a big star someday, but he needs polishing. Whereas one look at this guy tells me he’ll be a natural.”
“I can’t believe—” Stella began when she saw Darcy. I saw her eyes widen, then she smiled. “I can see what you mean, Cy. He might be just what we’re looking for.” She held out her hand. “Well, hello. I’m Stella.”
“Of course you are. Only someone in the middle of the Amazon jungle wouldn’t recognize you. I’m Darcy O’Mara,” Darcy said.
“Aren’t you sweet? I’m delighted to meet you,” Stella said. She was doing everything but physically throwing herself at him. Juan clearly had been forgotten. I felt myself bristling, but tried to remind myself that Darcy had to play up to Stella at the moment.
“And me? You tell me that I am no longer in your picture?” Juan said, stepping forward now, dark eyes flashing. “You do not want me?”
“It’s that accent. The way you slur your words. That girly lisp,” Goldman said.
Juan’s eyes flashed even more dangerously. “You insult my mother tongue, my country? You call me girl
y? I come from the land of bullfighters. Of men who are men.”
“You still lisp,” Goldman said. “It’s an accent that won’t go down well with the ladies in the theaters.”
“Then I will leave and go home now.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Mr. Goldman said.
“You think you can stop me?”
“You bet your sweet life I can. You signed a contract, remember. You belong to Golden Pictures just like Stella and Craig do. When I say ‘jump,’ they jump.” He thumped Juan on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll have a part written in for you. We’ll give you some exposure. Work with a voice coach. But you, young man”—he turned back to Darcy—“I want you for my Don Alonso. Come up to the castle with us this weekend and we’ll go through the script with you.”
“I say, that’s jolly decent of you. Thank you very much,” Darcy said. I glanced at him with amusement. He really could act. He’d discarded any trace of Irish accent and was trying to sound like a typical young English aristocrat directly descended from Henry VIII.
I started to wonder. Did he really want to act in Mr. Goldman’s epic? Did he really want to sign a contract with Golden Studios and be stuck in Hollywood, or was he just glad he’d found a way to be invited to the castle? I didn’t have a chance to ask him as Stella and Mr. Goldman swept him away and I was left alone in the darkness.
I didn’t have another chance to see him until we were in a motorcar being driven to Alhambra Two, Mr. Goldman’s castle. Mr. Goldman announced that he didn’t like taking drivers from the studio because then he’d have to pay them to hang around all weekend with nothing to do and we were perfectly capable of driving ourselves. We went in three cars with Ronnie driving Mr. Goldman and Stella, Craig driving Algie and Juan, and Darcy driving Mummy, her maid and myself. Mummy was astonished that nobody else was bringing a personal servant and that her maid would have to ride with us.
“One can have too much of this equality, darling,” she said. “Just think, if I’d stayed with Homer Clegg, I’d have had to do everything for myself too—and probably muck out horses and round up cattle.” She shuddered. “Of course Stella and Cy both grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Those little girls were as poor as church mice when I first met them in the theater. Their father was a Spanish waiter who deserted the family.”
