Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

if walking fast enough could take away my pain. At last I reached the old port and had to stop. I was out of breath and had a stitch in my side. I was also leaving the desirable part of town. There didn’t appear to be any taxicabs around here. I had to retrace my steps to the boulevard before I found one. The road started to climb, giving me a view down at the port with its collection of expensive yachts mingling with simpler fishing boats, and then the town was left behind and the road hugged a rocky headland, with the sparkling sea on one side and elegant villas clinging to steep cliffs. They ranged from the traditional Mediterranean villa, pastel colored with gay shutters, to neoclassical or horribly spare and modern. Before us was now a new bay, dotted with lovely white yachts. The cab turned off the main road and dropped to a small, secluded cove.
    “Villa Marguerite,” the cabby said. It was set behind a high stone wall, but through the wrought-iron gates I glimpsed a charming square traditional villa, a sort of warm pink with dark green shutters and a red-tiled roof, set amid manicured lawns. I opened the gate cautiously and went up the raked gravel drive to the front door.
    It was opened by a white-capped maid. I told her I had come to see Madame Chanel and she was expecting me. She bobbed a curtsy and invited me into a cool marble foyer.
    “Please wait here,” she said in French.
    “Who is it, Claudette?” a rich voice echoed down the stairs.
    “A visitor for Madame Chanel, Madame ,” the maid said.
    “Madame Chanel is out on the terrace. I’m just going out. I’ll escort her myself.”
    The speaker came down the stairs, elegant in scarlet wide-legged pajamas and a little Japanese jacket. Her blond bobbed hair was a perfect shining cap, and her eyes still as wide and blue as any schoolgirl’s. They opened even wider when she saw me.
    “Good God, Georgie, what are you doing here?”
    “Hello, Mummy,” I said.

 
    Chapter 11
     
    January 23, 1933
At the Villa Marguerite. Delightful day.
     
    She tapped down the marble staircase in high-heeled backless shoes to embrace me. We kissed, half an inch from each other’s cheeks as usual.
    “But nobody told me you were coming to the Riviera,” Mummy said, pouting as if I’d been keeping secrets from her.
    “You didn’t exactly let me know you were going to be here,” I pointed out. “Or invite me to stay.”
    “Darling, I thought you’d be busy in London, romping around with the delicious Darcy.”
    “Well, the delicious Darcy is no longer in London and no longer delicious,” I said.
    “Oh, dear. What happened?”
    “He has another woman,” I said.
    Mummy shrugged. “He wasn’t the type to stay around for long, was he? Never mind. Plenty of other fish in the sea.”
    “For you, maybe. Not for me. Where’s Max?”
    “At home in Germany.” She made a face. “Suddenly it’s all work, work, work. You know what Germans are like. I told him I needed sunshine and gaiety but he wouldn’t budge from his silly old factories. They are making new and clever tanks that can fire on people miles away and go over buildings, I gather. So militaristic, the Germans. It’s all to do with that silly little man Hitler. Everyone is saying he’s going to get into power. How can anyone take him seriously with that mustache? He looks like a hedgehog.” And she laughed gaily.
    “It is good to see you,” I said, smiling because one had to smile when my mother was around. “So you fled to the Riviera alone, then?”
    “Had to, darling. Couldn’t stand that dreary winter another second. So who are you staying with?”
    “With Fig and Fig’s sister.”
    “Oh, God. You’re not!”
    “I am and it’s beyond awful. I have to sleep on a camp bed in the library, Mummy, and they hardly eat any food and Foggy Farquar tried to fondle me.”
    “Well, you must come and stay here, of course,” Mummy said. “We’ll send someone for your things right away.”
    “Do you think the owner of the villa would mind?”
    She laughed again. “Silly child. I’m the owner.”
    “You?”
    “Don’t you remember I told you that the divine Marc-Antoine had given me a little villa on the Riviera?”
    “Marc-Antoine—was he the racing driver?”
    “Killed so tragically and so young. I adored him, you know. I really believe he was my one true love.”
    “Mummy, you’ve had so many one true loves.”
    “But not like Marc-Antoine. And he gave me this little