Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

English king and cousin to the young lady you have locked up in your jail cell. A message has also been sent to the English consul, who is on his way here, and to the ex-husband of Mrs. Bate Lombardi, who is a correspondent for NBC—the important American broadcasting network. Soon your chief’s foolishness will be known all over the globe and the British ambassador will be hurrying down from Paris with a stern message from the English king.”
    I thought I noticed Lafite turning a trifle green. At least his smile had faded. I don’t think until this moment he had quite realized my importance or that he may have created an international incident of great magnitude. I don’t think I had either.
    Then another, richer, louder voice boomed over Coco’s, echoing off the tiled hallway walls of the police station. “My poor baby. I demand that you let me see my child. I demand to know what you brutes are doing to her. You couldn’t be heartless enough to keep her mother from her in her hour of need!”
    Mummy was playing the part of the bereft mother—and, naturally, playing it awfully well. Miraculously, she was actually acknowledging me as her daughter, but her speech was being lost on the constable guarding the door as it was in English, Mummy’s French not being up to dramatics. Lafite went to the door and opened it with a sigh. “Madam,” he said in English, “your daughter is safe and unharmed. Please observe her for yourself.”
    “My darling!” Mummy cried and threw herself at me, uttering great, heart-wrenching sobs. It was a very convincing performance and I think the younger policeman dabbed his eyes. Then she turned the full force of her gaze onto Lafite. “You will let me take her home, won’t you? If you keep her here, I shall sit on the pavement outside in the cold all night, hoping and praying and waiting.”
    “ Madame , I cannot let her go. She will flee to the arms of her royal cousin and will never face justice for her crime.”
    “What crime?” Mummy demanded. “You can’t seriously think that my daughter had anything to do with the death of Sir Toby? Look at her—a sweet, innocent girl. She is in a state of complete shock.”
    “Sweet, innocent girls have been known to kill before now,” Lafite said. “They have even killed their mothers, I believe.”
    “But not my daughter. She is the great-granddaughter of Queen Victoria. She has been raised with that code of honor.”
    “I remember that your Queen Victoria killed many people as your country tried to rule the world,” Lafite said.
    “Yes, but not personally,” Mummy answered. “She had armies to do that for her.”
    Lafite smirked. “But you are not of royal blood, Madame . And you clearly have passion in your veins. Maybe your daughter, she takes after you.”
    I was tired and scared and angry. I got to my feet. “This is silly and it’s getting us nowhere,” I said. “I didn’t kill Sir Toby. I did not return to his house in the afternoon. I’ve made it clear to you that the marquis drove me home, in the rain. He drove me right up to the front door and I ran inside, where my maid greeted me. If I’d gone to Sir Toby’s I’d have been wet, wouldn’t I?”
    “My lady, this does not prove your innocence. Who is to say you did not slip away later, when the rain stopped?”
    I decided that a white lie might be in order. “My maid was with me, helping me prepare for my dinner with the marquis. She would have noticed if I’d left the villa. Why don’t you question her?”
    “We shall, mademoiselle. Trust me, we shall question everyone. But I would take the word of a maid who is loyal to her mistress with the speck of salt.”
    “Then I suggest you question Sir Toby’s wife and son, and his mistress, because they all have better motives to want him dead than I.”
    Lafite waved these suggestions aside. “I will decide whom to investigate. And at this moment the cards are all stacked against you, Lady Georgiana of Rannoch. It all comes back to the fact that a reliable man did not see a ghost when he noticed you in Sir Toby’s front garden. But trust me, Lafite will leave no pebble not-turned-over to get at the truth.”
    Mummy put a protective arm around my shoulders. “Then it may interest you to know that Madame Chanel has just telephoned to her friend at the Sûreté in Paris, and what’s more we have a top man from Scotland Yard arriving any moment. So you had better pray, Monsieur Lafite, that you