‘Fine, fine!’ I said, somewhat startled to get her on what I assumed was Alexander’s direct mobile line. ‘I do need to speak to Alexander quite urgently. Is he there?’
‘Darling, I’ll just get him.’ I heard her calling, ‘Alex! Alex!’
Where were they? And was that a seagull squawking in the background?
Nicky, meanwhile, was thinking. I could tell by the way his mouth was moving slightly as he hauled thoughts around in his head.
‘Well?’ I hissed. ‘Where’s my bag? Don’t tell me you checked it in at the cloakroom? I’ll never get it now.’
‘I didn’t check it in,’ said Nicky. ‘I put it down while I got some more champagne. Oh, come on!’ he said. ‘You didn’t expect me to be seen carrying a handbag, did you? I put it in a safe place,’ he added, seeing my face turn purple. ‘Behind a flower arrangement type thing.’
I almost dropped the phone. ‘What?’
‘It was heavy!’ he moaned. ‘What the hell have you got in there? A spare polo pony in case William breaks all of his?’
‘Where exactly did you leave it?’
‘By the champagne table. Near where they’ve sealed off the tent . . . Oh.’
We stared at each other as the extent of the whole truth dawned.
Predictably, Nicky recovered first. ‘Oh, come on,’ he said, with a wink and a nudge, ‘at least it’s livened things up! Life’s too short to watch an entire polo match!’
‘Your life may end up being a lot shorter than you realise!’ I hissed furiously, just as Alexander came on the line.
‘Hello? Melissa?’ He sounded worried. ‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’
I glared at Nicky, but tried not to let the stress show in my voice. At least Nicky hadn’t done it on purpose.
Or . . . hmm.
I swallowed. ‘Hello. I’m frightfully sorry to disturb you, but I just thought I should let you know that we’re at the polo match, and there’s been a bomb scare. But there’s nothing to worry about. It seems to be all in hand, but I didn’t want you to hear from anywhere else.’
I could hear the panic in Alexander’s cultured voice, although he was clearly making an effort not to distress me. ‘Good Lord, are you sure? Are you safe? Get in the Bentley – it’s armour-plated, you know. I had it from one of the sheiks.’
Nicky was sloping off slowly, but I grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘Just to put your mind at rest, here’s Nicky.’ And I handed him the phone, and grabbed the binoculars hanging from his pocket.
While Nicky was blathering on about hitting the deck and making the area safe, I trained my binoculars around the ground. Ponies . . . tall men in tight white trousers . . . burly royal protection officers with headsets and moustaches . . . There – the pavilion. Sure enough, the police were taping off an area around the side entrance, where we’d been downing Krug only ten minutes earlier.
I thought as fast as I could. My bag was full of stuff. And not just the usual purse, keys and make-up – there was a spare pair of shoes, tights, knickers (M & S size 14–16), a notebook with all kinds of potentially embarrassing facts about half of London’s single men, Alexander’s credit card, a note from my father shamelessly asking me to pretend I’d been on the Cheese Diet, all with my own name on!
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
I had to get it back before they blew it up or, worse, looked inside.
‘. . . will be fine. Yup. Cheers. OK, bye, then. I will. Bye-bye. No, really, I heard you the first time. Bye, now. Hang on, I think we’re going into a tunnel, I might get cut—’ And Nicky hung up on his grandfather.
I glared at him. ‘He knows you’re not going into a tunnel.’
‘Whatever.’ Nicky shrugged. ‘When do you reckon the camera crews will get here? Should I change my shirt?’
‘No,’ I said, closing my eyes and trying to machinate as Honey-ishly as possible. What would Honey do? It was an emergency.
I opened them. ‘We’re going to get the bag back,’ I said with more confidence than I felt.
‘We?’ Nicky raised his eyebrows with such incredulity that they almost disappeared into his hair. ‘But there’s a bomb over there . . . Oh, right. I get you. No, I don’t.’
‘Come with me,’ I said, setting off with a determined stride. ‘Keep up!’ I added over my shoulder.
‘And get in front of that wiggle? Absolutely not. It’s like two puppies fighting in a sack!’ said Nicky, ogling my rear end.
I covered my arse with my hands, self-consciously, though I had to admit I was a little bit flattered. ‘Now is not the time.’
‘Tell me when the time’s going to be!’ Nicky bounded after me. ‘And tell me what we’re going to do!’
I could feel my stockings against the inside of my thighs and not for the first time marvelled at how my brain suddenly seemed to whir into a higher gear as I walked.
As we got nearer the pavilion, I was pleased to see that despite the police’s best efforts to clear the area there were still quite a few female guests flapping around, and more than a few ex-army chaps with reddening faces, offering the police advice on what they should be doing. That would give us a bit of cover.
‘Right,’ I hissed in Nicky’s ear, ‘I hear you’re good at getting out of nightclubs through toilet windows.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicky, looking proud of himself. ‘Not to mention the odd bedroom window, at short notice.’
I gave him a disgusted look, but carried on. ‘Right, there’s a door the caterers were using round the back – sneak in there while I distract the policeman, grab my bag, and get out here as soon as you can. Throw it over the hedge if you have to. In fact, that might be a good idea.’
‘Can’t I run out with it? Like a hero?’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ I said, my brain racing. ‘We want to make you look brave and trained in security issues, because you’re a modern prince. You don’t want to look like a complete cretin with foolhardy risk issues. Get in, get the bag and get out.’
Nicky put his hand on my shoulder. His hand was warm and his long fingers caressed my neck. Out of habit, I reckoned, rather than anything else. ‘Melissa,’ he said, gazing deep into my eyes, ‘don’t you think I’d look wonderful on the front of The Times, having saved your life?’
‘Just save my handbag from being detonated,’ I said, preparing myself for the loss of my favourite-ever bag. It was a massive Kate Spade scarlet-leather number Jonathan had bought me in New York, and nothing had ever touched it for versatility, style and sheer capacity. But it would be a small sacrifice, I told myself. And in a good cause. Nicky was right: one prince saving the life of another would make a great story. When the initial fuss died down.
‘You know what this means, don’t you, Melissa?’ said Nicky.
‘What?’
He slid an arm around my shoulders, and flicked playfully at my wig. ‘You’ll have to spend the rest of your life, following me round, saving my bacon.’
I fixed him with a glare. ‘Your bacon’s still raw, Nicolas. Get a move on.’
True to his word, years of vanishing from places he shouldn’t be had given Nicky a cat-like slinkiness and I watched as he slipped unnoticed around the back of the pavilion. I didn’t even need to distract anyone. Covering his exit, though, would be more tricky.
I took a deep breath and strode towards the policeman nearest the door I hoped he’d emerge from. The one nearest where I hoped he’d left my handbag.
‘Gosh, officer!’ I said, fluttering my eyelashes shamelessly. ‘What’s happening?’
‘I’m not at liberty to tell you that, miss,’ he said. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, though. You’d be much safer standing by your car. If you wouldn’t mind moving along, please?’
I peered over his shoulder. No sign of Nicolas. ‘Um,’ I said, racking my brains for something to say, ‘I know you’re very busy but I did hear someone in the car park mention there was some funny-looking package by the welcome tent too?’
He gave me a hard look
. ‘I’ll get someone on to that.’ But he made no move to investigate.
‘It might even be drugs,’ I added hopefully.
‘Let’s deal with this package first, miss.’ Another, more impassive, look.
Clearly nothing was going to distract him. I felt a brief pride in the value for money my taxes were getting in quality policing, then dropped dramatically to the ground with a groan, clutching my chest and letting my skirt ride some way up my thighs, revealing an expanse of stocking top.
Sometimes the old ones are the best. At once, all surrounding policemen gathered around me, and were distracted long enough for Nicky to come bursting out of the tent, waving something in the air.
I staggered to my feet, waving away helping hands, ready to grab my handbag. But he wasn’t carrying it. Cold fear gripped me. He was waving something else.
‘It’s OK!’ he yelled. ‘Panic over! It’s just a make-up bag!’
I stared, as every head turned his way.
‘Don’t worry! I’ve had special security training,’ he went on. I noticed he’d undone yet another button on his shirt and ruffled up his hair. ‘Secret service and all that. My great-great-uncle was assassinated. Can’t be too careful, you know, in my situation.’
‘As heir to Hollenberg,’ I added hastily. ‘His grandfather’s the Crown Prince.’
Policemen began to approach him, with a mixture of respect and bewilderment writ large on their faces, but he motioned them aside and strode towards me.
I shook my head silently and put my hands up. The last thing I wanted was to be ceremoniously presented with the personal item that had caused all this kerfuffle.
‘No, please, no fuss,’ Nicky was saying, still walking towards me. ‘Don’t thank me. Let’s just get this polo back on the road. Think of the elephants. Don’t want them missing out on their big fund-raiser. Tell Wills the chukkas are back on, OK?’
Somehow, he managed to breeze majestically past all the policemen, all the hangers-on, everyone, then slung his arm around my shoulders.
I felt a thrill run up my spine, then forced myself to look unperturbed. I had to admit, inwardly, that I was impressed. That was more Honey than Honey. Clearly, Nicky could do commanding and competent when he wanted.
‘You look peaky, darling,’ he said in a loud voice.
‘Yes,’ I agreed, nodding my head for emphasis. ‘Take me back to the car. I could do with getting something warm inside me.’
‘That can be arranged,’ said Nicky.
And we were walking towards the car, and the police seemed to be letting us.
‘Your great-great-uncle,’ I said, trying to sound light. ‘Was he really assassinated?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Nicky nodded. ‘Shot by a jealous husband in a casino in Monte Carlo. Dreadful scandal. Didn’t even get that evening’s IOUs written off. Oh,’ he added, ‘want this?’
And he passed me my make-up bag.
‘Thanks,’ I said wryly, wishing he’d saved the real thing. ‘But what did you do with my handbag? Did you leave it so they’d have something to blow up?’
Nicky winked. ‘It’s in the boot of the car. I got Ray to wait behind the window.’
I paused, and allowed my lips to curl into a smile. ‘You’re quick.’
He paused too, and pretended to look hurt. ‘No one, Melissa, has ever said that to me before.’
‘You can be pretty resourceful too,’ I said, thinking of my How to Be A Prince list. Chivalry, selflessness, rational thinking: he was making some headway down it, after all. ‘Any reason why you . . .’ I didn’t want to say ‘chose this moment to behave properly?’
‘Why I decided to go along with your plans?’ His eyebrows flicked up, and underneath my jacket I felt prickly heat tingle along my arms and across my chest as he blinked slowly, letting his long, dark lashes brush his skin. ‘Why do you think?’
‘To get this project over and done with sooner?’ I suggested.
‘Maybe. Or maybe I wanted to save your bag. Or our joint reputations.’ He widened his eyes, as if to say, ‘No?’
I fiddled with my make-up bag. ‘Or maybe you wanted to get on the front page of The Times? Or was it to get onto Prince William’s Christmas card list?’
I didn’t know why I was being so sarcastic. It was just like being back at school, and having a crush on some spotty youth from St Peter’s and only being able to converse in insulting banter. But then there was something so ludicrously ‘dorm pin-up’ about this foxy, tanned, wealthy, urban prince, I couldn’t help reverting to schoolgirlish behaviour.
Nicky sighed, squeezed my shoulder and set off towards the car again. ‘Darling, I’m on Prince William’s bloody Christmas card list. He’s my ninth cousin or something.’
‘I’m not impressed,’ I reminded him.
‘I didn’t expect you to be,’ he said, and I thought I detected a note of ruefulness in his voice.
We had reached the Bentley. Ray leaped out of the driver’s side and went round to the back, bearing no outward signs that anything was amiss.
‘Brandy, ma’am?’ he said, lifting the boot to reveal a huge wicker hamper and, tucked behind that, my red bag.
‘That would be lovely,’ I said.
As I sipped from the little silver crested tumbler, it struck me that the police had been remarkably willing to let Nicky walk away from the scene, with the evidence too. Surely they’d have to write some report about it? There were bomb squad cars there and everything.
In fact, that was another car full of police dogs arriving right now.
‘Ray,’ I heard Nicky ask, ‘surely now I’ve got the bomb out, they can let the boys in blue go home? Get the horses back out?’
‘Ah, well,’ said Ray, ‘I did overhear one of the other drivers mention that the suspicious package in the loos wasn’t so easy to remove.’
My blood ran cold. ‘The loos?’ I said. ‘But I thought . . .’
Ray coughed discreetly. ‘As I understand it they had an anonymous phone tip-off; once they started looking for suspicious packages, it seems the whole place was awash with them. I don’t think they were even looking for a handbag—’
He didn’t get a chance to explain any further, as a muffled explosion from the direction of the field cut him off. And another. Then another one, over by the horseboxes. The police must have been doing controlled explosions on everything bar the canapés.
Nicky grabbed his binoculars. ‘Someone should tell Venetia Hammond that bomb scares are no excuse to feel up Her Majesty’s policemen.’
I reached up and took the binoculars off him. ‘I think this would be a good moment to go home,’ I said firmly. ‘Ray?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.
By the time Ray pulled up outside my house, I was in an advanced state of all-over tingle. I still had no idea what kind of cologne Nicky wore, but it seemed to contain illegal pheromones. I did, on the other hand, now have an awfully vivid knowledge of the side of Nicky’s head, which I’d been studying while we chatted so as not to meet his shamelessly direct eyes. The soft skin behind his ear, before the nut-brown curls began, the hollow in his neck, the darker indentation on his earlobe from the earring he’d agreed to take out a few months earlier.
I wished I’d been there for that argument between Nicky and Alexander. Mind you, having had the entire argument recounted for me in surprisingly self-deprecating detail, I felt I almost had been.
‘You’re not going to invite me in for a nightcap?’ he asked, leaning over as I busied myself with my bag.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s only six thirty. Nowhere near bedtime.’
Nicky hoiked up one eyebrow. ‘Early to bed, early to rise . . .’
I blushed and ignored him. ‘Anyway, Nelson texted me earlier to say he’d cooked supper.’
‘Fine. How about a nightcap at my place, then?’
I gave him a firm look. ‘Nicky, you clearly have no experience of Nelson’s beef Wellington. It’s not something you pass up.’
‘You sound almost jealous,’ I said.
‘Who wouldn’t be?’ He sighed. ‘You don’t have to be so professional all the time, Melissa. You’re not on duty now. In fact, what would happen if I were to slip this lovely blonde wig off and—’
He reached for my hair, and I grabbed his wrist. ‘No,’ I said.
‘Mmm!’ growled Nicky. ‘Like that, is it? Fine with me!’
Visions of Jonathan flashed in front of my eyes. I’d let him under my professional guard – I knew it could happen, even when I was fighting against it with all my most honourable intentions. Honey was a seductive state of mind, for the client and for me. But it wasn’t going to happen now. Besides, might this not be another of Nicky’s slippery plans to get me off his case? Charm me into bed, then complain to Alexander that we could no longer work together ‘for personal reasons’? He wasn’t the sort to keep quiet about any conquests, either.
He might need his allowance, but I needed my flat deposit.
I dropped his wrist, trying not to notice how sinewy it was beneath the soft skin.
‘No,’ I said more quietly. ‘Sorry.’
Nicky leaned further over, and took my other hand. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me, Melissa?’
I swallowed. Nelson always told me I was too trusting. So did Jonathan, and Gabi. And Granny and Allegra and Mummy, come to that. No matter how charming Nicky seemed, I didn’t really know him at all.
‘No,’ I said, forcing a laugh into my voice. ‘I don’t trust you an inch!’
He looked at me, his brown eyes suddenly unreadable. If he was trying to appear hurt and distressed, in a Method Acting way, I conceded to myself, he was halfway there.
‘Neither do I,’ he sighed.
‘Oh, give it a rest,’ I said, grabbing my bag. ‘For a moment there, I thought . . .’
‘Thought what?’
‘Thought you weren’t spinning me one of your Sloane fishing lines.’ I got out of the car, shut the door and leaned in through the window. ‘I’ll speak to you soon. I’m off to Paris tomorrow – I need to pack.’
Little Lady Agency and The Prince Page 21