Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

working. If she has friends, she can stay with them. That was what she was thinking.
    “Actually, people I met on the train,” I said. “One of them is a relative of sorts. Vera Bate Lombardi. Do you know her?”
    A look passed between them. “Know of her . . .” Ducky said.
    “Isn’t she the Duke of Cambridge’s . . .”
    “Yes,” Ducky said firmly.
    “And Coco Chanel, the dress designer,” I added.
    “Chanel? You know Chanel?” The two women’s faces immediately lit up.
    “Yes. I’m going to be modeling for her new collection,” I said breezily. “She’s unveiling it at a big party in a few days’ time.”
    “And she wants you to be a model? You, of all people?” Fig looked at me as if she couldn’t believe Chanel could be that desperate.
    “I’m exactly the type she wants for her new collection,” I said. “I’m going to her villa this afternoon to try on clothes. I probably won’t be back for dinner, so don’t wait for me.”
    Frosty silence.
    “We rather hoped you’d be a help with the children, not rushing off every second,” Fig said. Ducky nodded.
    “I thought you brought Podge’s nanny with you,” I couldn’t resist saying. “You don’t exactly check up on him too often at home.”
    “He comes down to us every teatime, doesn’t he, Binky?” Fig sounded affronted. “Every teatime regularly. And of course we brought Nanny. What we were hoping for was some schooling from you. He needs to learn to read and write.”
    “And Maude shouldn’t fall behind in her lessons either,” Ducky said. “Not if she’s to get into a top school. We have her down for Roedean, you know.”
    “Then I’m afraid I’d be hopeless,” I said. “I only know how to walk around with a book on my head.”
    “You speak French,” Fig said. “You could teach the children that.”
    She was determined that somehow I was going to earn my keep. I glanced down at her, thinking what an unpleasant person she was. I had observed several murders in my life. Hers, I believe, would be justified.
    To show willingness to a point I gave both children a half hour’s drilling in French. I rather wished I knew more naughty words. I’d have taught them those—especially Maude. Lunch was even grimmer than dinner and breakfast had been. A small square of cheese was placed in the middle of the table with more bread, some tomatoes and olives.
    “We like to eat lightly at lunchtime,” Ducky said. “Healthy for the digestion.”
    After lunch they went for a siesta. I put on my least unfashionable frock, applied a touch of rouge and lipstick and set off for the Villa Marguerite. I had been told it was too far to walk, but there was no hope of finding a taxicab closer than the seafront. It was a delightfully warm afternoon, and the beach looked so inviting—with its gay changing cubicles, lines of wicker chaises, topped with bright blue cushions, and bright blue umbrellas. I was a little disappointed to find that the beach was made of stones, not sand, but nobody else seemed to mind. People in bathing suits were sunning themselves. I observed them, amazed at the daring nature of the bathing suits. Many of the women’s suits were absolutely backless and the men wore what could only be described as black underpants. Nanny would have swooned on the spot.
    Not too many of the bathers dared to put more than a toe in the ocean, I noticed. The brave ones were nearly all children. There was one particular little boy with a mop of dark curls who ran fearlessly into the waves, then ran out again, screaming, as a bigger wave approached.
    A man got up from a deck chair and took his hand, leading him to the water this time and helping him to jump over the waves. He had similar dark curls and there was something familiar about the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. Then he turned around and my heart did a flip. It was Darcy. As I watched he looked back at a slim, dark-haired woman lounging on a wicker beach chair in a strapless bathing top, her long black hair curling seductively over one shoulder. She must have said something because he burst out laughing and ruffled the child’s hair. So it was true. He had a mistress in France and a child that he had never told me about.
    I felt as if a knife was ripping my insides in half. I just wanted to get away. I stumbled onward, colliding with an old colonel, who barked at me, “I say, watch it!”
    I muttered an apology and kept on walking, faster and faster, as