Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

giving a little bow.
    It suddenly dawned on me that he was not a guest, but one of Sir Toby’s servants. I wondered if his master had given him permission to swim in the pool. I tried to imagine one of our servants daring to swim nude—not that we had a pool, and the loch was too cold for nude bathing—but I’m sure they would never have considered such unseemly behavior. The words “Not quite one of us,” a sentiment expressed one way or another several times to describe Sir Toby, passed through my head. Perhaps servants of the old school didn’t want to work for him, in spite of his money.
    I waited in a circular entrance hall with a white marble floor. Around the walls were Roman or Greek busts—and I was pretty sure they were not copies. From a room beyond a voice boomed, echoing unnaturally loudly, “Yes, Johnson, what is it now? A visitor? Well, you can see I’m in the bath, damn it. If it’s that slimy little toad Schumann again, tell him he’s wasting his time. He’ll get nothing out of me and if he tries to pursue this, he’ll be sorry.”
    There was a pause. Then I heard him say, “What? Who? Well, that’s different. Show her into the drawing room, get her something to drink. I’ll be along in a jiffy.”
    Johnson appeared, looking a trifle embarrassed. “Sir Toby suggests you wait for him in the drawing room, miss,” he said.
    “I heard.” I shared a grin with him.
    “This way.” He led me through the entrance hall into a sumptuous room. The walls were lined with what even I, with my lack of knowledge, recognized as paintings of masters old and new. Wasn’t that a Renoir, and that a Van Gogh? And on various shelves and tables there were beautiful objects—cabinets of fine porcelain, silver bowls and, in a glass-topped table, I thought I recognized his collection of snuffboxes. I inched closer.
    “What may I bring you to drink?” Johnson asked.
    “What? Oh, a citron presse would be very nice,” I replied.
    “A what, miss?”
    “Fresh lemonade, you know.”
    I moved toward the table. What a lot of snuffboxes there were—silver ones, gold ones, boxes carved out of jade . . . and surely that was the queen’s box in the middle? I tried to remember the exact description. I’d only know the truth if I could open the lid and see the picture of Marie Antoinette in a frame of diamonds. I wondered how easily the lid of the table would lift up—oh so casually I put my hand on it and started to raise it gently until—
    “Ah, there you are,” boomed the voice behind me. “Delighted you came, my dear.”
    I let the lid fall and spun around, red faced. Sir Toby was wearing white trousers and a striped fisherman’s jersey, rather like mine. Only his was a little tight and stretched over a large paunch. He bore down on me, holding out his hand. “Absolutely delighted. Nothing like a bright young face around the place to cheer me up. Has that man of mine brought you a drink yet? No? The boy is hopeless. Came with good references but he’ll have to go. My last manservant could read my mind, you know. I never had to ask for a thing.”
    “What happened to him?” I asked.
    “Had to let him go. Found he’d been helping himself to my good Scotch. The really good stuff. Couldn’t tolerate that. This young chap doesn’t drink.” We looked up at the light tap of feet on the marble. “Ah, there you are, Johnson. Oh, and you’ve brought my whiskey. You may just be all right after all.”
    Johnson placed my drink on a low table, bowed then retreated.
    Sir Toby poured himself a generous amount of Scotch and raised his glass to me. “Down the hatch.” He drained the glass. “So why on earth are you staying with the old hens next door? I’d have thought a bright young thing like you would have more fun somewhere in town.”
    I thought carefully before I answered. “I’ve been doing a spot of modeling for Chanel. She wanted me to stay with her so that she could work with me.” Which was the truth. I’ve always found it easier not to lie whenever possible.
    “Ah, so you’re a model. That explains it. Do you do your modeling in London or Paris?”
    “I don’t really model professionally,” I said. “I just do it occasionally to help out friends.”
    “Of course. Of course. Well-brought-up girl like you—it wouldn’t be seemly to work for your living, would it?” He laughed heartily. “So how do you like my humble abode?”
    “It’s magnificent,” I said. “You have so