Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

was too keyed up. One way or another tonight was going to be a life-changing experience for me. I had no idea whether Jean-Paul would drive me home after dinner and dancing or take me back to his villa, where Pierre, like Sir Toby’s men, had been trained to turn a blind eye to all kinds of goings-on. Was that what I wanted? Wasn’t I merely flattered that someone as desirable as Jean-Paul was paying attention to me? Wasn’t part of my motivation that I wanted to punish Darcy? And did I really want to give up my virginity to someone like Jean-Paul, who would probably lose interest in me tomorrow? But then, I was twenty-two and a half and it was about time . . . besides, Jean-Paul had made it perfectly clear that he would never force a woman if she didn’t want to. Unlike that brute Sir Toby—
    I sat upright again. After today I could never go back to his villa. I had failed the queen in my task. Well, maybe not quite. I looked out the window. There was no sign of his yacht yet, which must mean he was still out at sea—and that the villa was temptingly vacant—except for Johnson. I knew he had been sent into town on an errand so he might well not have returned either. If there had been other servants they were not in evidence while I was there. Might it be possible to climb down the cliff and enter the house by the French doors by the pool and then take the queen’s snuffbox?
    The thought of it made my heart lurch. Then I decided that if I bumped into a servant, all I needed was a good excuse for having come back. I had left my—what? I hadn’t come with the proverbial gloves or purse. I had come with nothing. An earring—that was it. Small enough to have rolled under something. I had lost a valuable pearl earring and I wanted to see if it fell out while I was at Sir Toby’s. Yes. That was satisfactory and should appease Johnson or anyone else I met. I went upstairs and took out one of my pearl earrings to use as evidence.
    “Oh, I didn’t know you wanted yer pearls tonight, melady,” Queenie said, looking up from laying things out on my bed. I noticed she had put out my daytime lisle stockings to go with my evening wear. “I thought you said pearls were for daytime.”
    “They are. I just needed this earring. Maybe the amethysts for tonight?”
    I changed out of my white linen trousers and put on an ordinary skirt and blouse and sandals. Then I ran back downstairs, my heart still racing. It was a perfect time—the others weren’t home yet. Neither was Sir Toby. Nobody to see me climb down the cliff and sneak past his swimming pool. Out of the back of the house, across the terrace and down through the bushes to one side of the stone balustrade I went. It was no longer raining but the hillside was slick with reddish mud. I slithered and slipped my way down, clinging to pine trees and shrubs as I descended not at all gracefully.
    At last I reached the oleanders around Sir Toby’s pool without sitting on my bottom once—quite an achievement. I peered through the leaves at the house. No sign of movement. One of the French doors appeared to be still slightly open. Perfect. All I had to do was tiptoe around the pool . . . I emerged from the shrubs, holding my breath, and moved forward cautiously. The pool deck was slippery with rain. I should take care not to lose my footing and fall in, because a big splash would certainly . . . I glanced into the pool and let out an involuntary yelp of horror.
    Sir Toby was in his pool. I leaped back behind the nearest bush. How could he be home already when his yacht was not there? I peeked through the branches. He didn’t appear to have seen me. That’s when I noticed that he was lying facedown, sprawled across the top step, half submerged in water, and across the back of his head was a red stain that was turning the water around him pink.

 
    Chapter 20
     
    January 26, 1933
Villa Marguerite. Sir Toby is dead in his swimming pool.
Oh, crikey.
     
    I didn’t know what to do. If I shouted for help, I’d have to explain my presence trespassing in his back garden. I started to inch away until I reached the shrubs around the perimeter, then I slithered and clawed my way back up the hill until I was standing safely on my mother’s terrace. I felt as if I was about to be sick. He had to be dead, didn’t he? He hadn’t moved, and his head—my stomach heaved. The back of his head had been smashed in. I leaned over the railing and noticed that I could see him from