Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

behaved impeccably, Georgiana. We can’t have the heir to the throne behaving like a common playboy and bringing disgrace to the royal family. So if you see him appearing in public with this woman, I’d like to know about it. You’ll write to me immediately to let me know whether she is actually staying on the yacht with him.”
    “I will, ma’am.”
    She stood up. I followed suit, as one doesn’t sit when royalty stands. “Well, that’s all settled then. This is most fortuitous, isn’t it? You go to the Riviera with the family and I achieve my objectives as well. Very satisfactory all around. I’ll instruct my secretary to make your travel arrangements.”
    I was escorted from the room. As I walked through the palace I mulled over the last part of our interview. I could have sworn that she wanted to ask me to do something quite different from spying on Mrs. Simpson. She had hesitated and changed her mind at the last moment. I wondered if it was another piece of cat burglary that she had wanted me to carry out. I heaved a sigh of relief. Spying on Mrs. Simpson was something I knew I could do.
    I left the palace feeling both excited and scared. But it was mostly excited. I was going to the Riviera after all. After that my first thought was that of every woman, when faced with a crisis—I had nothing suitable to wear on the French Riviera, especially if I was to be hobnobbing with one of the richest men in England. As soon as I got home, I opened my wardrobe door and stared in dismay at the few cotton dresses and skirts I owned. Nothing that could vaguely be called “smart,” and no way of obtaining anything better. Belinda had already departed, taking her gorgeous gowns with her. She’d be needing them herself and I didn’t think she’d be willing to lend me a few. I had nobody else I could beg, borrow or steal from. I pictured myself walking down the Promenade des Anglais in my crumpled cotton prints while silk- and linen-clad ladies stared at me with distaste. They’d think I was somebody’s companion or nursemaid!
    For a moment, as I went up the steps into Rannoch House, I came to the conclusion that I shouldn’t go after all, then I realized that this was being ridiculous. To turn down a chance to be on the Riviera just because I didn’t have smart clothes—what was I thinking? Even if Queenie was as hopeless at laundry and ironing as she was at everything else, the family we’d be staying with would have sensible and efficient French maids who would at least make me look respectable, if not fashionable.
    This reminded me of the matter of Queenie. The queen hadn’t said anything about paying my maid’s fare, and I was pretty sure that Fig wouldn’t want her at the villa, since she’d already told me to dismiss her. Poor old Queenie. The amount I was paying her wouldn’t keep body and soul together if she wasn’t being fed and clothed. Perhaps I should find her a temporary situation while I was away. I paused, considering this, then shook my head. I couldn’t in all honesty give her a letter of recommendation. It wouldn’t be fair to saddle an innocent party with her. She was, I had to confess, completely and absolutely useless.
    I went into my bedroom and closed the door firmly behind me. I needed time to think this through carefully.
    “Oh, botheration,” I muttered.
    “Whatcher, miss,” Queenie interrupted me. “I had a good idea about that skirt of yours what I messed up. We could get one of them silk flowers, or a bunch of them pretend grapes, and sew them over the bald spot.”
    In spite of everything I had to laugh. “Queenie, one cannot go to dinner with a bunch of grapes hanging from one’s stomach. Besides, I won’t be needing velvet for a while, so maybe I can send it back to Scotland with the servants. Our gamekeeper’s wife is a good seamstress. I’m sure she’ll be able to rescue it.”
    “So where exactly are we going when they shut up the house here?” (Of course, there were no aitches in her version of the sentence.)
    I took a deep breath. “Actually, Queenie, I’m going to France with them.”
    Her face lit up. “We’re going abroad again? To foreign parts? Wait till I tell my old mum, who told me I’d never amount to nothing. And look at me now, hobnobbing all over the Continent. I got quite a taste for that foreign food after I got used to it.”
    Oh, golly. How was I going to put this tactfully? I had to tell her.
    “You see, the thing is,