Her Royal Spyness

by Rhys Bowen

  At least I had had some illicit adventures with the opposite sex in my life, even if I was too young to remember them.

  “Mother, about Granddad,” I said in a low voice, not wanting to miss this opportunity. “He’s not very well. I think you should go and see him—”

  “I’d love to, darling, but I’m catching the boat train back to Cologne this afternoon. Max will be pining. Tell him next time we’re over, all right?”

  The cream was brought, packaged, and charged to my mother’s account. She was escorted out with much bowing and gushing. I watched her go, feeling that annoyance I always felt after any encounter with my mother—so many things I wanted to say and never a chance to say them. Then the floorwalker and Miss Fairweather returned to the counter, muttering together. She gave me a frosty stare and a sniff as she went around to her side.

  “And you, girl, take off that smock,” the floorwalker said.

  “Take off my smock?”

  “You are dismissed. I heard the tone of voice you used to one of our best customers. And Miss Fairweather claims she even heard you telling the customer to go away. You may have ruined Harrods’s reputation forever. Go now. Turn in your smock and be gone.”

  I couldn’t defend myself without revealing myself as a liar and a fraud. I went. My experiment with gainful employment had lasted all of five hours.

  It was about two o’clock when I came out into a glorious spring afternoon. The sun was shining, the birds in Kensington Gardens were chirping, and I had four shillings I had earned in my pocket.

  I wandered aimlessly through the afternoon crowds, not wanting to go home, not knowing what to do next. It was Saturday and the streets were packed with those who had a half day off work. I’d never get a job in another store now, I decided miserably. I’d probably never get another job anywhere and I’d die of starvation. My feet started hurting me and I felt almost dizzy with hunger. I realized they hadn’t even given me a lunch break. I stopped and looked around me. I didn’t know much about restaurants. People I knew didn’t pay to go out to eat. They ate at home, unless they were invited to dine with a friend or neighbor. When we had been in London for my season we had eaten supper at the various balls. I had been taken to tea at the Ritz by a friend’s aunt, but I could hardly go to the Ritz with four shillings in my pocket. I knew Fortnum and Mason, and the Café Royal, and that was about the extent of my restaurant knowledge.

  I realized I had walked until the Kensington Road had become Kensington High Street. I recognized Barkers and knew that it would have a tearoom, but I had determined never to set foot in a department store again. In the end I went into a dismal Lyons, ordered a pot of tea and a scone, and sat feeling sorry for myself. At least I’d eat well as lady-in-waiting to a princess. At least I would be addressed politely and wouldn’t have to put up with people like Miss Fairweather and that floorwalker. And I wouldn’t risk bumping into my mother.

  I looked up as a shadow hovered over me. It was a dark-haired young man, slightly unkempt, but not at all unattractive, and he was grinning at me.

  “My goodness, it is you,” he said in a voice that bore traces of an Irish brogue. “I couldn’t believe my eyes as I walked past and saw you in the window. That’s never her ladyship, I said to myself, so I had to come in to see.” He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat without being invited to do so, still studying me with amused interest. “So what are you doing, seeing how the other half lives?”

  He had unruly dark curls and blue eyes that flashed dangerously. In fact he so unnerved me that I resorted to type. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” I said. “And I don’t speak to strange men.”

  At that he threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, that’s a good one. Strange men. I like that. Do you not recall dancing with me at a hunt ball at Badminton a couple of years ago? Obviously not. I’m mortally wounded. I usually make a far greater impression on a girl I’ve held in my arms.” He held out his hand. “Darcy O’Mara. Or should I say the Honorable Darcy O’Mara, since you obviously care about such things. My father is Lord Kilhenny, a peerage that goes back far longer than your own admirable family’s.”

  I took his hand. “How do you do?” I said tentatively, because in truth I was sure I’d have remembered meeting him and especially being in close contact in his arms. “Are you sure you’re not mistaking me for someone else?”

  “Lady Georgiana, is it not? Daughter of the late duke, sister to the boring Binky?”

  “Yes, but . . .” I stammered. “How can I possibly not remember dancing with you?”

  “Obviously you had more desirable partners that night.”

  “I assure you I didn’t,” I said hotly. “All the young men I remember were as dull as ditchwater. They only wanted to talk about hunting.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with hunting,” Darcy O’Mara said, “in its place. But there are many preferable occupations when in the presence of a young woman.”

  He looked at me so frankly that I blushed and was furious with myself.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to drink my tea before it gets cold.” I looked down at the grayish, unappetizing liquid.

  “Don’t let me stop you,” he said, waving expansively. “Go ahead, if you think you’ll survive the experience without being poisoned. They lose a customer a day here, you know. Just whip them quietly out the back entrance and go on as if nothing has happened.”

  “They do not!” I had to laugh.

  He smiled too. “That’s better. I’ve never seen such a grim face as you were making earlier. What’s wrong? Have you been dumped by a deceiver?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just that life is insufferably gloomy at the moment.” And I heard myself telling him about the room in the cold house, the embarrassment at Harrods, and the prospect of banishment to the country. “So you see,” I concluded, “I’ve not much to look cheerful about at the moment.”

  He eyed me steadily, then he said, “Tell me, do you have a posh frock with you?”

  “Posh as in dressing for dinner posh, or as in going to church posh?”

  “As in attending a wedding posh.”

  I laughed again, a little uneasily this time. “Are you suggesting we run off and get married to cheer me up?”

  “Good Lord, no. I’m a wild Irish boy. It will take a lot to tame me and drag me to the altar. So do you have a suitable outfit within reach?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”

  “Good. Go and put it on and meet me at Hyde Park Corner in an hour.”

  “Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  He touched his finger to his nose. “You’ll see,” he said. “A damned sight better than tea and scones at Lyons anyway. Are you going to do it?”

  I looked at him for a moment, then sighed. “What have I got to lose?”

  Those roguish eyes flashed again. “I don’t know,” he said. “What have you?”

  You are quite, quite mad, I said to myself several times as I washed, dressed, and attempted to tame my hair into the sleekness required by fashion. Going out on a whim with a strange man about whom you know nothing. He could be the worst sort of imposter. He could be running a profitable white slave ring, pretending to know young girls and luring them to their doom. I stopped what I was doing, rushed down to the library, and pulled out a copy of Burke’s Irish Peerage. There it was all right: Thaddeus Alexander O’Mara, Lord Kilhenny, sixteenth baron, etc. Having issue: William Darcy Byrne . . .

  So a real Darcy O’Mara did exist. And it was midafternoon. And the streets were crowded. And I wouldn’t let him take me to a low-down dive or sleazy hotel. And he was awfully good-looking. As he said, what had I got to lose?

  Chapter 6

  Rannoch House

  Saturday, April 23, 1932

  I almost didn’t recognize Darcy O’Mara as he came toward me on Park Lane. He was wearing full morning suit, his wild curls had been tamed, and he looked remarkably presentable
. The quick once-over glance he gave me told me that he thought I also passed muster.

  “My lady.” He gave me a very proper bow.

  “Mr. O’Mara.” I inclined my head to reciprocate the greeting. (One never calls anybody honorable, even if they are.)

  “Please forgive me,” he said, “but was I correct in addressing you as ‘my lady’ and not ‘your royal highness’? I’m never quite sure of the rules when it comes to dukes.”

  I laughed. “Only the male children of royal dukes can use the HRH,” I said. “I, being a mere female, and my father not being a royal duke, even though of royal blood, am simply ‘my lady.’ But just plain Georgie will do.”

  “Not at all plain Georgie. It was good of you to come. I assure you you won’t regret it.” He took my elbow and steered me through the crowd. “Now let’s get out of here. We look like a couple of peacocks in the hen coop.”

  “Do you mind telling me where we’re going?”

  “Grosvenor House.”

  “Really? If you’re taking me to dine, isn’t it a little early, and if you’re taking me to tea, aren’t we overdressed?”

  “I’m taking you to a wedding, as I promised.”

  “A wedding?”

  “Well, the reception part of it.”

  “But I haven’t been invited.”

  “That’s all right,” he said calmly as we started down Park Lane, “neither have I.”

  I wrenched my arm free of him. “What? Are you out of your mind? We can’t go to a wedding reception to which we haven’t been invited.”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” he said. “I do it all the time. Works like a charm.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. He was grinning again. “How else would I get a decent meal once a week?”

  “Let me get this straight. You intend to gate-crash a wedding at Grosvenor House?”

  “Oh, yes. As I told you, there’s never a problem. If you look right and you speak with the right accent and you know how to behave, everyone takes it for granted you are a legitimate guest. The groom’s side thinks the bride’s must have invited you and vice versa. You, being absolutely top drawer—they’ll be proud and happy to have you there. Raises the tone of the whole occasion. Afterward they can say to each other, ‘I hope you noticed we had a member of the royal family present.’”

  “Just a distant relative, Darcy.”

  “Nonetheless, a catch. They’ll be thrilled, you’ll see.”

  I pulled away from him. “I really can’t do this. It’s not right.”

  “Are you backing out because it’s not right or because you’re afraid of getting caught?” he asked.

  I glared at him. “I was brought up to behave properly, which may not have been the case in the wilds of Ireland.”

  “You’re scared. You’re afraid there’s going to be a scene.”

  “I am not. I just don’t think it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Stealing their food by false pretense, you mean? As if anyone who can afford a wedding reception at Grosvenor House would notice if anyone took a couple of illegal slices of cold salmon.” He took my hand. “Come on, Georgie. Don’t back out on me now. And don’t say you’re not interested. Anyone who was attempting to eat one of Lyons’s scones is obviously in need of a good meal.”

  “It’s just that . . .” I began, conscious of his hand holding mine. “If I’m caught there might be a frightful stink.”

  “If they notice you and realize that they didn’t invite you, they’ll only feel mortified that they left you off the list and glad that you came.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Look at me. Do you want smoked salmon and champagne or to go home to baked beans?”

  “Well, if you put it that way, lead on, Macduff.”

  He laughed and took my arm. “That’s the ticket,” he said and swept me along Park Lane.

  “If you’re really Lord Kilhenny’s son,” I asked, my courage returning, “why do you need to gate-crash other people’s weddings?”

  “Same story as your own,” he said. “The family’s penniless. Father invested heavily in America, lost it all in ’29; then there was a fire in his racing stables. Lost all that too. Had to sell the property and when I turned twenty-one he told me there was nothing for me so I’d have to make my own way. I’m making it the best I can. Ah, here we are.”

  I glanced up at that formidable red and white brick building on Park Lane as Darcy swept me up the steps under the colonnade and into the front entrance of Grosvenor House Hotel.

  The doorman saluted as he opened the door. “You’re here for the wedding reception, sir? To your right, in the blue ballroom.”

  I was whisked across the foyer and suddenly found myself in a queue for the reception line. I was expecting doom to fall at any moment, when the bride and groom would look at each other. I could hear them saying loudly, “But I didn’t invite her, did you?” Luckily brides and grooms must be in a state of shock on such occasions. The bride’s mother murmured, “So kind of you to come.” The bride and groom were momentarily involved with the person ahead of us and Darcy took the opportunity to steer me toward a passing tray of champagne.

  After a few minutes of feeling that my heart was going to leap into my mouth, expecting at any second to feel that hand on my shoulder, that voice barking, “She’s a gatecrasher, please have her escorted from the premises,” I started to relax and look around me. It certainly was very pleasant. The event was not being held in the grand ballroom, to which I had been for a ball during my season; it was in a smaller room, big enough for only two hundred or so, and now richly decorated with early spring flowers—the scent was heavenly. At the far end was a long, white-clothed table on which I could glimpse the many tiers of a cake. In one corner an orchestra (composed, as they so often are, of elderly men) was playing Strauss waltzes. I took a hot vol-au-vent from a passing tray and began to enjoy myself.

  Darcy had been quite right. If you behave as if you should be there, then nobody questions it. People who half recognized me drifted up and there were several conversations along the lines of, “So, have you known old Roly long?”

  “Can’t say I know him well at all.”

  “Oh, so you’re one of Primrose’s lot then. Stunning girl.”

  “You see how easy it is?” Darcy whispered. “The only difficulty arises when there is a sit-down banquet with assigned places at the table.”

  “What on earth do you do then?” I asked, the panic returning as I looked around to detect evidence of an adjoining dining room.

  “I make my apologies for having to catch a train and I melt away before it starts. But this one is only nibbles and cake. I checked first. I usually do.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  He laughed. “We Irish have learned to live by our wits after centuries of being occupied by you English.”

  “If you don’t mind, I happen to be Scottish. Well, one-quarter Scottish anyway.”

  “Ah, but it was your great-grandmother who went around subjugating half the world. Empress of all I survey, and all that. You must have that quality somewhere in your makeup.”

  “I’ve never had a chance to subjugate anybody yet, so I can’t really say,” I confessed, “but I’m frequently amused and she never was, apparently. At least not after Albert died. In fact, given my grim list of ancestors, I’d say I’m pretty normal.”

  “I’d say you turned out pretty damned well, for someone who is more than half English,” he said and, to my annoyance, I blushed again.

  “I think I’ll go and try some of that crab,” I said and turned away, only to bump into a familiar face.

  “Darling!” Belinda cried excitedly, “I had no idea you were coming to this bash. Why didn’t you tell me? We could have taken a cab together. What fun, isn’t it? Who’d have thought that Primrose would settle down with someone like Roly?”

  “Primrose?” I glanced across the room to glimpse the bride’s back, hidden beneath a long veil around which ever
ybody was cautiously stepping.

  “The bride, darling. Primrose Asquey d’Asquey. She was at school with us, don’t you remember? Well, for one term anyway. She was expelled for giving the new girls a lecture on how to use the Dutch cap.”