by Rhys Bowen
Chapter 7
Rannoch House
Saturday, April 23, 1932
We came out to a mild April evening. The setting sun was streaming across the park.
“There,” Darcy said, taking my arm to help me down the steps. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? You survived perfectly well and you’re considerably better fed and wined than you were a couple of hours ago. In fact there are now nice healthy roses to your cheeks.”
“I suppose so,” I said, “but I don’t think I plan on doing it again. Too hair-raising. There were people who knew me.”
“Like that twerp Hautbois?” Darcy said scathingly.
“You know Tristram, then?”
“I can’t say I actually socialize with him these days. We were at school together. At least, I was a couple of years above him. He snitched to the masters and got me a beating once.”
“For doing what?”
“Trying to take something from him, I believe,” he said. “Sniveling little brute that he was.”
“He seems quite pleasant now,” I said.
“Has he asked to see you again?”
“He’s offered to show me around London.”
“Has he now.”
With a thrill I realized that he might be jealous. I grinned.
“So how on earth do you know him?” Darcy went on. “He can’t have been one of your partners at those dreary deb balls, surely?”
“We were practically related once. My mother was married to his guardian. We used to—to play together.” Somehow I couldn’t use the word “naked” with Darcy.
“I’d imagine you are probably practically related to a good many people on several continents,” he said and raised an eyebrow.
“I think my mother only actually married the first few bolts,” I said. “In those days she was conventional enough to still believe she should marry them. Now she just—”
“Lives in sin?” Again that challenging smile that did something to my insides.
“As you say.”
“That would never work for me,” he said. “As a Catholic, I’d be damned to hell if I kept marrying and divorcing. The church considers marriage sacred and divorce a mortal sin.”
“And if you kept living in sin with somebody?”
He grinned. “I think the church would prefer that, given the options.”
I glanced up at him as we waited to cross Park Lane. Penniless, Irish, and a Catholic too. Quite unsuitable in every way. If I were still being chaperoned, I’d have been bundled into the nearest cab and whisked away instantly.
“I’ll see you home,” he said, taking my arm again when I teetered as we crossed the street.
“I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way home in broad daylight,” I said, although I had to admit that my legs weren’t exactly steady after all that champagne and with the heady prospect of his walking beside me.
“I’m sure you are, but wouldn’t you rather have my company to enjoy this lovely evening? Were I currently in funds, I’d have arranged a horse-drawn carriage and we’d clip-clop slowly along the leafy avenues. As it is, we can still walk across the park.”
“All right, then,” I said, rather ungraciously. Twenty-one years of strict upbringing were shouting that I should have no more to do with a man whom I had been warned was a cad and unreliable, as well as being penniless and a Catholic. But when had I ever had such a tempting chance to stroll through the park with someone so devastatingly handsome?
There is nothing as lovely as a London park in springtime. Daffodils among the trees, new green emerging on those spreading chestnuts, elegantly turned-out horses crossing from the riding stable toward Rotten Row, and courting couples strolling hand in hand or sitting rather too close to each other on the benches. I stole a glance at Darcy. He was striding out, looking relaxed and enjoying the scene. I knew I should be making conversation at this moment. At all those training sessions at Les Oiseaux, when we had to dine with each of the mistresses in turn, it was drummed into us that it was a mortal sin to allow a silence to descend upon a dinner party.
“Do you actually live in London?” I asked Darcy.
“At the moment. I’m sleeping at a friend’s place in Chelsea while he’s on his yacht in the Med.”
“That sounds awfully glamorous. Have you been to the Med yourself?”
“Oh, yes. Many times. Never in April though. Not smooth enough. I’m a rotten sailor.”
I tried to form the question I was dying to ask him. “So do you have some kind of profession? I mean, if you have to gate-crash functions to get a good meal and your father has cut you off without a penny, how do you survive?”
He looked down at me and grinned. “I live by my wits, my girl. That’s what I do. And it’s not a bad life. People invite me to make upon even number at dinner parties. I’m awfully well house-trained. I never spill soup on my dinner jacket. They invite me to dance with their daughters at hunt balls. Of course they don’t all know what I’ve told you about being penniless. I’m Lord Kilhenny’s son. They think I’m a good catch.”
“You will be Lord Kilhenny one day, won’t you?”
He laughed. “My old man is likely to live forever, just to spite me. He and I have never been the greatest of pals.”
“And what about your mother? Is she still living?”
“Died in the flu epidemic,” he said. “So did my little brothers. I was away at school so I survived. The conditions were so brutal there, the food so bad, that even the influenza bugs didn’t think it worth visiting.” He smiled, then the smile faded. “I think my father blames me for living.”
“But you’ll have to do something with yourself someday. You can’t go on sneaking in to eat at other people’s functions.”
“I expect I’ll marry a rich heiress, probably an American, and live happily ever after in Kentucky.”
“Would you like that?”
“Good horses in Kentucky,” he said. “I like horses, don’t you?”
“Adore them. I even adore hunting.”
He nodded. “It’s in the blood. Nothing we can do about it. That’s the one thing I regret, the destruction of our racing stable. We had some of the finest thoroughbreds in Europe at one time.” He stopped as if the idea had just struck him. “We must go to Ascot together. I know how to pick winners. If you come with me, you’ll win yourself a tidy amount.”
“If I can win myself a tidy amount, why don’t you win tidy amounts for yourself and thus not be quite so penniless?”
He grinned. “And who says I don’t win myself very tidy amounts from time to time? It’s a great way to keep my head above water. I can’t do it too often, though, or I’d find myself in trouble with the bookmakers.”
I looked up and saw to my regret that we were approaching Hyde Park Corner and Belgrave Square lay just on the other side.
It was one of those rare spring evenings that holds the promise of summer. The sun was about to set and the whole of Hyde Park was glowing. I turned to savor the scene.
“Don’t let’s go indoors yet. It’s lovely to be outside. I’m afraid I was brought up to be a country girl. I hate looking out of my window at chimneys and rooftops.”
“I feel the same way,” Darcy said. “You should see the views from Kilhenny Castle—all those lovely green hills and the sea sparkling in the distance. Can’t beat it anywhere in the world.”
“Have you been around the world?” I asked.
“Most of it. I went to Australia once.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, my father suggested I try to make my fortune there.”
“And?”
“Not the right sort of place for me. They’re all plebs, all mates together. They actually enjoy roughing it and going to a loo in the backyard. Oh, and they actually expect one to work by the sweat of one’s brow. I’m afraid I was made for civilization.” He found a bench and sank onto it, patting the seat beside him. “Good view from here.”
I sat beside him,
conscious of the closeness and warmth of his leg against mine.
“So tell me,” he said. “What do you plan to do with yourself now that Harrods is no more?”
“I’ll have to look for another job,” I said, “but I rather fear that Her Majesty is making her own plans. At the moment it is a choice between marrying a ghastly foreign prince or becoming lady-in-waiting to a great-aunt, Queen Victoria’s last surviving daughter, in the depths of the countryside where the height of entertainment will be holding her knitting wool or playing rummy.”
“So, tell me”—he looked at me with interest—“how many people actually stand between you and the throne?”
“I’m thirty-fourth in line, I believe,” I said. “Unless somebody’s had a baby in the meantime and pushed me further back.”
“Thirty-fourth, eh?”
“I hope you’re not thinking of marrying me in the hopes of gaining the crown of England one day!”
He laughed. “That would be a trump card for the Irish, wouldn’t it? King of England, or rather Prince Consort of England.”
I laughed too. “I used to do that when I was small—lie in bed and work out ways to kill off all those ahead of me in the line of succession. Now I’m grown up, you couldn’t pay me enough to be queen. Well, actually that’s a lie. If my cousin David proposed, I’d probably accept.”
“The Prince of Wales? You think he’s a good catch?”
I looked surprised. “Yes, don’t you?”
“He’s a mama’s boy,” Darcy said scornfully. “Haven’t you noticed? He’s looking for a mummy. He doesn’t want a wife.”
“I think you’re wrong. He’s just waiting to find a suitable one.”
“Well, this latest flame won’t be suitable,” Darcy said.
“Have you met her?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And?”
“Not suitable. Charming enough, but definitely an older woman and far too worldly-wise. They’d never let her be queen.”
“Do you think she wants to be?”
“Well, as of now she’s still married to someone else, so it’s probably a moot point,” he said. “But I shouldn’t keep your own hopes up. Your cousin David is never going to pick you as his consort. And frankly, you’d soon tire of him.”
“Why? I think he’s most amusing, and he’s a topping dancer.”
“He’s a lightweight,” Darcy said. “No substance to him. A moth flitting around, trying to find out what to do with himself. He’ll make a rotten king.”
“I think he’ll step up when the time comes,” I said huffily. “We have all been brought up with duty thrust down our throats. I’m sure David will do his one day.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Anyway,” I whispered confidentially, “I’ve been asked to spy on her.” I realized as I said it that too much champagne had loosened my tongue and I should not be confiding things like this to strangers, but by the time I had processed this information, it was too late.
“To spy on her? By whom?” Darcy was clearly interested.
“The queen. I’m supposed to attend a house party to which the prince and his lady friend have both been invited, then report back to HM.”
“You’ll probably have nothing good to say about her.” Darcy grinned. “Men universally find her delightful and women universally find something catty to say about her.”
“I’m sure I shall be very fair in my assessment,” I said. “I am not prone to cattiness.”
“That’s one of the things I think I might like about you,” Darcy said. “And there are others.” He looked around. The sun had gone down and it had become instantly chilly. “Best get you home before you freeze in your posh frock.”
I had to agree that I was now feeling the cold, especially since the champagne down my front hadn’t quite dried yet. And no maid to sponge away the stains. What was I going to do about that?
He took my hand and dragged me across the traffic at Hyde Park Corner.
“Well, here I am,” I said unnecessarily as I stood outside my front door and fumbled in my purse for the key. As usual in moments of stress, my fingers weren’t obeying very well. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”
“Don’t thank me, thank the Asquey d’Asqueys. They paid for it. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I don’t think I’d better. I’m living alone, you see.”
“And you’re not even allowed to have a young man in for a cup of tea? I didn’t realize the royal rules were still so strict.”
“It’s not royal rules.” I laughed nervously. “It’s just that—I’m afraid none of the rooms fit for entertaining are open. And I have no servants yet. I’m just sort of camping out in one bedroom and the kitchen, where my culinary talents don’t stretch beyond baked beans and tea. I did take cooking classes at school, but all useless items like petit fours that I never could master.”
“I prefer petit fives myself,” he said, making me smile.
“I never learned to make those either.”
I glanced into the gloomy interior of the front hall and then back at Darcy. The thought of being alone with him was tempting. Twenty-one years of training won out. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon,” I said again, and held out my hand. “Good-bye then.”
“Good-bye then? ” He gave me the most appealing little lost boy look. I almost melted. But not quite. “Look, Darcy, I would love to invite you in, but it is getting late, and . . . you do understand, don’t you?”
“Turned out alone into the snow. How cruel.” He pulled a tragic face.
“You said five minutes ago that it was a lovely afternoon.”
“Ah well,” he said. “I can see you’re not going to be moved whatever I say. Twenty-one years of royal upbringing. Never mind, there will be other occasions.” He took my hand, brought it to his lips, and this time he kissed it, sending a shiver all the way up my arm.
“If you like, I’ll take you to a party at the Café de Paris next week,” he said casually, releasing my hand again.
“Are you crashing this one too?”
“Of course. It’s given by Americans. They just love British nobility. When they hear you are related to the royal family, they’ll be kissing your feet and plying you with cocktails and inviting you to stay on their ranches. Will you come?”
“I expect so.”
“I can’t remember which day, offhand. I’ll let you know.”
“All right,” I said. I lingered, feeling awkward. “Thank you again.
“The pleasure was all mine.” He made that somehow sound sinful. I fled into the house before he caught me blushing again. As I closed the door behind me and stood in that cold, dark front hall with its black and white checked floor and dark embossed walls, a disturbing thought came into my mind. It occurred to me that Darcy might now be using me to gate-crash even more events. Perhaps I was now a guaranteed entry ticket to places he had been barred from before.
Indignation rose up for a second. I didn’t like the thought of being flattered and used, or being flirted with as if he really meant it. But then I had to agree that it was more fun than the humdrum life I had been leading recently. Certainly better than doing crossword puzzles at Castle Rannoch or sitting in the subterranean kitchen eating baked beans. As I had said earlier, what had I got to lose?
Chapter 8
Rannoch House
Saturday, April 23, 1932
I was about to go upstairs to take off my posh frock, as Darcy called it, when I noticed some letters were stuck in the box. Hardly anybody knew I was in town yet so letters were a novelty. There were two of them. I recognized my sister-in-law’s writing on one of the envelopes, and the Glen Garry and Rannoch crest (two eagles, trying to disembowel each other over a craggy mountaintop), so I opened the other one first. It was the predicted invitation. Lady Mountjoy would be so delighted if Lady Georgiana could join them at their country estate for a house party and a masked fancy dress ball.
There
were a couple of postscripts. The first a formal one: Please bring fancy dress costumes with you as there is nowhere in the neighborhood that rents out such things.
And the second, less formal: Imogen will be so delighted to see you again.
Imogen Mountjoy was among the dullest, stodgiest girls in the world. She and I had scarcely exchanged more than two words during our season, and those were both about hunting, so I truthfully couldn’t imagine her being delighted at the thought of seeing me, but it was a kind gesture and I resolved to RSVP as soon as I had read the missive from Fig.