Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

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    This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
     
    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
     
Copyright © 2011 by Janet Quin-Harkin.
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    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
     
    Bowen, Rhys.
    ISBN : 978-1-101-54381-8
    1. British—France—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Nice (France)—Fiction. I. Title.
    PR6052.O848N38 2011
    823’.914—dc22 2011010023
     

     

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This book is dedicated to Marie O’Day,
whom I have elevated to the ranks of royalty for this story.

 
    Chapter 1
     
    London
January 15, 1933
Weather forecast: showers turning to sleet later. Outlook:
depressing.
     
    The Riviera had never looked more inviting. The sun sparkled on a sea of deepest blue. Elegant couples strolled beneath the palm trees on the Promenade des Anglais. The scent of mimosa blossoms hung in the air while a seagull soared lazily overhead. . . . I gave a contented sigh.
    “ ’Ere, watch it, love. You’re slopping soup all over.” The gruff voice brought me back to the present with a jerk. I wrenched my eyes away from the poster on the wall and down to the scene in front of me. A long, gray line of shabbily dressed men, muffled against the bitter cold, snaked across Victoria Station. They clutched mugs or bowls and stood patiently, eyes down or staring, as I had been, into a world that nobody else could see but them. I was currently helping out at the station soup kitchen. It was a bitter and bleak January day, and I felt as cold and miserable as those poor wretches who shuffled past me.
    “Oh, crikey. Sorry,” I muttered as I noticed the trail of soup splashed across the oilcloth table. “I wasn’t concentrating.”
    “It’s all right, love. It can’t be much fun doling out soup all day, not for a young lady like you.”
    “Oh, I don’t mind,” I said. “Help yourself to bread.”
    “Thank you kindly, miss.” The man gave me a half nod, half bow. “You’re a real toff, you are.”
    He was correct, of course. I am a real toff—Lady Victoria Georgiana Charlotte Eugenie, daughter of the second Duke of Glen Garry and Rannoch, thirty-fourth in line to the throne of England—and I was helping out at the soup kitchen for several reasons: The first reason, naturally, was that I couldn’t find a proper job. I had been educated to curtsy without falling over (most of the time), to know whether a bishop takes precedence over a duke (depends if it’s an archbishop or a royal duke) and which fork to eat oysters with (trick question: oysters are tipped from the shell straight into the mouth). I had never learned useful things like typing or