Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

opportunist, like Belinda. He was good at crashing parties and securing invitations. Maybe he was already on the Riviera at this moment. My heart beat a little faster.
    By the time we arrived at Dover, Queenie had obviously been enjoying herself in the third-class compartment with the other servants.
    “I told them other maids that her ladyship and me goes abroad all the time and what’s more we stays in blooming great royal castles. You should have seen their faces. Green with envy they was.”
    I thought they were probably just sickened either by the swaying of the train or by Queenie’s inappropriate boasting. “Queenie, a real lady never boasts,” I said. “If you want to become a lady’s maid, you must learn to act with decorum.”
    “Who’s he when he’s at home?” she asked. Actually, it was closer to “’Oo’s ’ee when ’ee’s at ’ome?”
    “Decorum. It means behave like a lady.”
    “Bob’s yer uncle, miss. I won’t do it no more. I promise I’ll act with—decoration.”
    “Queenie. It might be helpful if you read some books and improved your speech. Real ladies’ maids are very refined. As refined as their mistresses.”
    “I can’t help it if I was born dead common, miss,” she replied.
    I sighed. “Go and make sure our luggage gets on the boat and then keep an eye on it until it’s safely carried ashore in France.”
    We went on board. The weather had worsened and the crossing was miserable. The ship bucked and rolled and half the passengers lay green and groaning with rugs over their knees or stood vomiting over the railing. One of the only useful things I had learned from my mother at an early age was how to survive a rough sea crossing. One goes straight to the bar, when one comes on board, and orders a brandy ginger ale and a good meal. I did this. I noticed that the ship’s restaurant was deserted and I was one of the few people daring to eat. The only other occupants were an elderly parson and wife and two men sitting close together at the bar. I couldn’t help noticing that one of the men looked very French and was devastatingly handsome. Also that he was drinking champagne. My spirits lifted. I was on my way to the Riviera, where there would be oodles of attractive Frenchmen. I would learn to flirt like Belinda and I was going to have a good time.
    As I passed the Frenchman to reach my table I heard his companion say, “So is it tournesols ?”
    My French is pretty good but I didn’t understand this last word.
    Then my handsome Frenchman replied, “No, it is only a chair. Much simpler.”
    At this the first man nodded and left the bar. As the French coast came into sight the Frenchman got down from his bar stool. As he came toward me I saw a flash of recognition cross his face, followed in succession by surprise and—was it anger?
    “ Que fais tu ici? ” he began, then he checked himself, frowned and nodded politely to me as he went past.
    How strange. He had addressed me not only as if he knew me, but as if he knew me well. He had called me tu , which was the very familiar form of address. But I was sure I’d never seen him before in my life. I paid my bill and went to find Queenie and my luggage. Oh, well, one was supposed to have adventures when one went abroad and they were starting even before I reached France.
    I was met by an extremely wet and windblown Queenie. “I ain’t half glad to see France, miss,” she gasped. “All those people hanging over the side and being sick fair turned my stomach.”
    “Queenie, you look like a drowned rat.”
    “Well, you said to keep an eye on your luggage so I stayed with it,” she said.
    I looked at her fondly. She may have been clueless in the extreme, but she certainly was loyal. She’d stayed up on deck with my luggage, even though nothing could have happened to it during the crossing.
    “Well done, Queenie,” I said. “We’ll soon have you on the Blue Train, where you can dry off and have a cup of hot tea.”
    We followed our porter ashore and were whisked through customs to a special platform where the Train Bleu was waiting. Even on this dark and gloomy day those Pullman coaches seemed to glow with opulence. The porter found my compartment, which had a small berth connecting for Queenie. Really, it was most civilized.
    Queenie came through to join me, looking slightly less damp and wild. “I was soaked right down to me knickers, miss. I’ve put them to dry on the radiator.”
    It was no use