Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

impatiently.
    I hugged him. He clung to me.
    “You see,” Fig said to Binky, who was holding the door open for the constant stream of servants and luggage, “I told you we should have sent him home to Scotland. It’s going to be unsettling for him. He’s probably going to cry all night on the train and upset everyone.”
    “Of course he’s not. He’s going to be a big boy, aren’t you, Podge?”
    Podge nodded tearfully and took Nanny’s hand as she led him out. I watched with a lump in my throat.
    “And Georgiana, we can count on you to make sure the house is properly closed up, can’t we?” Fig turned to ask as she swept to the front door.
    “Don’t worry,” I said.
    I noticed she didn’t come up to hug me. Binky tried to negotiate the servants and baggage. “’Bye, old thing,” he called to me. “So sorry you can’t come with us. I hope it all works out with the queen this morning.”
    And then they were gone.
    “Did you want your cup of tea in bed, miss, or are you already up?” Queenie appeared, carrying the tea tray.
    “You’re about an hour too late and, as you can see, I’m already up,” I said. “Tell Cook that I’ll have a proper breakfast this morning.”
    At least I’d make the most of my last days here by helping to use up their food. Our cook, Mrs. McPherson, has always had a soft spot for me and she sent up a perfect breakfast: bacon, kidneys, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread and two eggs.
    I finished the plate with relish then went up to select a suitable outfit for my upcoming visit to the palace. Luckily Queenie had not tried to clean my one good tweed suit yet!
    I always approach Buckingham Palace with great trepidation. Who doesn’t? I know they are relatives, but most relatives don’t live in great gray stone palaces, surrounded by iron railings and guards in red coats. And most relatives are not queen-empresses, sovereigns over millions and millions of people across the globe. I am one of those people whose limbs won’t obey them when they get nervous. I do things like trip over carpets and knock vases off tables at the best of times, so you can imagine what it’s like in a palace. I’m only glad I wasn’t born when my great-grandmother was still alive. I would have probably knocked her down the grand staircase and she certainly wouldn’t have been amused.
    Still I tried to look jaunty and confident as I walked down Constitution Hill toward the front gate of the palace. Most people arrive at the palace in a great black motorcar, so the guards at the iron gates looked surprised and suspicious when I showed up on foot.
    “Can I help you, miss?” one of them asked, barring my way, not even standing to attention or saluting. This is what happens when one doesn’t own a decent fur coat.
    “I’m not a miss; I’m Lady Georgiana, His Majesty’s cousin, and Her Majesty is expecting me,” I said.
    The guard turned as red as his jacket. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I didn’t expect someone like you to be arriving on foot.” They must have been the Welsh Guards, as he had a strong lilting accent.
    “Well, I only live around the corner and the walk does me good,” I said. “In fact, Their Majesties are very keen on walking. The king takes his constitutional around the grounds every day, rain or shine, I believe.”
    “He does indeed, my lady.” The guard opened a small pedestrian gate in the bigger one and helped me to step through—which was lucky as I hadn’t noticed the bar across the bottom and almost stumbled. “Williams will escort you, my lady.” He nodded to the guard standing with him. Williams stood to attention and then marched beside me across the courtyard. I found this screamingly funny, me taking little steps in my tight skirt and Williams trying to march very slowly. We reached the entrance, and Williams saluted and marched back to his post. I went up the steps.
    Inside I was greeted, welcomed and ushered not up the great stair, but a side staircase to Her Majesty’s personal sitting room in the private wing. Not nearly as intimidating as one of the official reception rooms full of priceless stuff to knock over.
    “Lady Georgiana, ma’am,” the lackey said as he opened her sitting room door.
    I took a deep breath, trying to look confident while muttering to myself, “Do not trip. Do not bump into anything.”
    At the last second I saw that the lackey had stuck out his foot a little as he bowed. I managed to jump over it, with a