Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

grabbed it. He reeled me in and hoisted me on board.
    “Thank you. You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” I gasped as he revved up the motor and we sped away. “How lucky that you happened to come this way.”
    “Nothing to do with luck, ma chérie ,” Jean-Paul said, reaching for a large fluffy towel and handing it to me. “I was sitting on my own terrace, just across the cove, reading the morning newspapers—where you and I both feature nicely, I might add—when I heard a boat’s motor start up. I looked up and saw you going out to Sir Toby’s yacht. Knowing his less-than-honorable reputation with young women, I decided to give chase. I jumped into my speedboat and came to the rescue.”
    “I’m so glad you did. He was trying to—you know.”
    “Get you into his bed. Naturally. He has that reputation.” He slipped an arm around my shoulder. “But you are safe now. I will take you home and dry you off and all will be well.”
    His arm was warm and comforting around my shoulder as we made for the shore.
    It did cross my mind that I might have leaped from the proverbial frying pan into the fire. Jean-Paul also had a reputation, didn’t he? But I didn’t exactly find him repugnant. Besides, he was a true gentleman—a marquis, not a trumpedup arms dealer from the lower classes. Somehow I felt safe with him. He confirmed this by saying, “The English—I will never understand. They think it is manly and bold to force a woman into bed. The Frenchman, he would never do that. If a woman says no to him, he sees this as a challenge. He tries to seduce her little by little, with charming gestures, presents, flowers, plenty of attention, until one day, she comes to his bed willingly and with anticipation. And if she still says no, then there are plenty more fish in the sea, as you say.”
    And he laughed.

 
    Chapter 19
     
    January 26, 1933
At the villa of Jean-Paul de Ronchard—imagine! If only
Belinda could see me now—oh, and Darcy.
     
    The coastline neared with its fabulous villas dotting the rugged shoreline. Jean-Paul slowed the motor as he steered his boat into a little cove. I could see the gleaming white of Sir Toby’s villa just across the cove. Ahead of us was a jetty, to one side of it a small crescent of beach and, above it, a lovely Tuscan-style villa with red-tiled roof and green-painted shutters.
    “Welcome to my humble abode,” Jean-Paul said. Before we reached the dock, a manservant in a white jacket appeared and made fast our boat. Jean-Paul jumped out and helped me ashore.
    “A slight calamity, Pierre,” he said. “Run and fetch a towel and one of my dressing gowns for milady. The light blue to go with her eyes, I think.” He took my hand and led me toward the house. “Go to the bathroom. Take off your things and Pierre will make them as good as new in an instant,” he said.
    “Oh, no, really, that’s not necessary,” I protested. “I’ll drip all over your lovely floor. I’m really not far to the villa where I’m staying. I could just walk home.”
    “Absolutely not,” Jean-Paul said firmly. “You cannot return home in that state. If you do, there will be questions asked. You will tell them the truth and instantly there will be three tigresses trying to get at Sir Toby’s throat. This is not wise. Sir Toby is not a nice person. You do not wish to make an enemy of him. My advice is to let Pierre repair your clothing and pretend that nothing has happened. And as for my floor—marble can withstand any number of drips. So this way to the nearest bathroom.”
    He led me across the floor of a large sunroom with a bright tiled floor, wicker chairs and striped cushions. Beyond I could see more ornate rooms with paintings and objets d’art to rival Sir Toby’s. A door was opened for me to a bathroom large enough to hold an orchestra. Pierre reappeared with the dressing gown and a huge fluffy towel with a crest embroidered on it. Jean-Paul closed the door for me. “Take your time,” he said. “Put your wet clothes outside the door, then enjoy a bath or a shower.”
    I did as he suggested, pouring a bath almost large enough to swim in and indulging in some heavenly scented bath salts. As I lay there I considered the fact that Jean-Paul might settle down one day and what it would be like to be the Marquise de Ronchard. The thought didn’t entirely displease me. Then I dried with the fluffy towel and put on the blue silk dressing gown. He was right. It did