Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

many lovely things.”
    “I’m a bit of a collector,” Sir Toby said smugly. “I like to have beautiful things around me. You see that painting? It’s a Turner—one of my favorites. And the sunflowers? Van Gogh. And that picture of a chair beside it. Another Van Gogh, painted in Arles. He’s going to be worth a mint one day, take my word for it.”
    “So you prefer recent masterpieces, do you?” I asked innocently.
    “I collect the best of every century,” he said. “Those busts in the hall—from ancient Rome. That silver? Georgian. And that little table in the corner—Louis XIV. I don’t specialize in any particular country or period—anything rare and valuable. That’s what I collect. The art in this villa alone is worth a mint. And I’ve even more in my country house in England.”
    Before I could come up with any kind of sensible question to bring the subject to snuffboxes, he clapped his hands. “So what are we waiting for? I promised you a sail, didn’t I? The yacht’s out there and ready to go, so let’s go down to the dock. Johnson!” he yelled.
    Johnson appeared.
    “You’ve got the list of things I want done in town, haven’t you? You can take the car. And take the rest of the afternoon off if you like. I’ll be dining out.”
    With that he ushered me out through some French doors, then down a flight of steps cut into the cliff, to a jetty at which the sleek teak launch I’d seen before was tied. He jumped down into it with surprising agility for a man of his age and build, then held out his hand to me. I thought he held it rather overlong and squeezed it a little hard. Then he was all business, starting the motor, untying the ropes and steering us out into the blue water. When he was clear of the dock he opened the throttle and the boat shot forward, heading to the great blue and white yacht anchored a few hundred yards offshore. Uniformed crew lowered a ladder and came down to assist us. I was helped on board and heard the sound of the anchor being raised.
    “I thought we’d go down the coast to Monte.” Sir Toby took my elbow and propelled me forward to a canopied area at the bow as the yacht began to move. “Lovely stretch of coast all the way. Splendid place, Monte. Ever been there?”
    “Never,” I said, my eyes feasting on that magnificent coastline—the steep cliffs plunging into the ocean with villas perched on apparently sheer slopes. It was breathtaking. I also noticed clouds building over the mountains and felt the stiff wind in my face as the yacht came out of the bay.
    Sir Toby pointed out another, even bigger, white yacht that was steaming further out to sea. “See that? Duke of West-minster’s bloody great monstrosity. Pretentious, wouldn’t you say? He has the casino at Cannes fire a twenty-one–gun salute to him when he comes into the harbor. He’s got the Prince of Wales on board at the moment, did you know? And I rather fancy a certain American woman may have joined the party by now.” He gave me a nudge. “Let’s see if we can race them to Monte, shall we?” He turned to one of the young men standing at attention behind us. “Full steam ahead, Roberts.” Then he took my arm again. “Come and make yourself comfortable, my dear.”
    “Oh, can’t we stay here and look at the view? It’s simply lovely.”
    “Plenty of time for the view later. I’ve got a bottle of champagne on ice inside.”
    He opened a door into a saloon as large and impressive as most drawing rooms, with windows almost all around. There were leather sofas and great bowls of flowers on the tables and a well-stocked bar in one corner. He motioned me to sit, then barked out orders to a crew member who hovered behind us. “You can open the champagne now and tell the chef we’ll be wanting something to eat soon. And none of that mamby-pamby French stuff either. Good hearty English food, tell him.”
    I could hear the deep throb of the engine and the boat started to rise and fall as it cut through waves. Champagne was opened and a glass handed to me.
    “Drink up,” Sir Toby said, draining his own glass. “Plenty more bottles where that came from.”
    “It’s rather early yet,” I said cautiously.
    “Nonsense. I know you bright young things—knocking back the booze at nightclubs, and a spot of snorting as well, what?”
    “Not me,” I said. “I rarely drink or go to nightclubs. Too expensive and money’s tight these days.”
    “Ah, so that’s the attraction, is