Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

I am referring to,” Mummy said. “I just wondered . . .”
    “Was summoned home to England unexpectedly,” Mrs. Simpson snapped. “Apparently his daddy wasn’t happy that he was enjoying himself on the Med while his subjects were suffering. I told him it was nonsense. His subjects would still be suffering whether he’s in England or not. But he said his father’s health hasn’t been the best lately, so he felt he should be a good little boy and run home.” She smoothed back her hair, which was not out of place to start with. “And how about you? I don’t see any burly Germans in evidence.”
    “Making money back in Germany,” Mummy said. “Germany’s simply too depressing, so I escaped.”
    “Things should be looking up there soon,” Mrs. Simpson said. “I understand this new guy, this Hitler, is a little firecracker. David says he’s got lots of splendid ideas to put Germany back on its feet.”
    “I’m not so sure I want it back on its feet,” Mummy said. “I’m fond of Max, but it’s hard to forget that Germany was the enemy and all the awful things they did . . .”
    “That was just the old Kaiser,” Wallis said. “This new regime will be more forward-looking. David thinks we’ll get on splendidly.” She looked around expectantly. I thought she might have been seeking out a particular person, but then she said, “So I understand you can actually see the swimming pool where the dead man was found.”
    “Yes, from our terrace,” Mummy said.
    So it was only morbid curiosity that had made her sink to attending Mummy’s party. How screamingly funny. I couldn’t wait to tell Belinda.
    “I must take a look for myself,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Dying of curiosity. Such a strange murder, don’t you think? Personally I’d put money on his wife. A sour-faced creature if ever there was one. These English aristocrats are so repressed—all that bottled-up tension and not enough sex. It’s not healthy.” She smirked as she looked at my mother. “I suppose you should be glad you’re lower class.”
    “Ditto,” Mummy said. “Although I was a duchess, which is more than you can say.”
    “Ah, but who can say what the future may bring?” Mrs. Simpson replied with an enigmatic smile. “Come and show me the murder scene. I find murders most fascinating, don’t you?”
    Others followed them out to the terrace, talking excitedly about murder. I stayed behind. I had no wish to be reminded. In fact, I wondered if I would be missed if I slipped away. So the Prince of Wales had left Mrs. Simpson to return to England. It was encouraging to know that he did still feel the call of duty and she didn’t have a complete hold over him. But for me it meant that I didn’t have a royal relative in the vicinity should Inspector Lafite decide to proceed with prosecuting me. I wondered if the Duke of Westminster would appear at the party and whether I was actually related to him.
    I jumped when I heard what sounded like gunshots from outside the open French doors, until I realized that the guests were already letting off fireworks. I happen to love fireworks, so I went outside and watched rockets and Roman candles shooting up into the night sky to fall sparkling over the dark sea, while the sophisticated crowd greeted each firing with oohs and aahs.
    The fireworks obviously put everyone in a party mood. They started playing parlor games, harmless ones at first, but then progressively more risqué.
    “Let’s play statues,” someone suggested. There were giggles as ladies were selected to stand as statues in the middle of the room. A male volunteer was called for and Foggy Farquar stepped forward. He was blindfolded, spun around and then put among the statues. The object of the game was then revealed—he had to feel the statues and guess the womens’ identities. What followed was a lot of groping and bawdy comments. I was so glad I hadn’t been picked as a statue; I’d have died of embarrassment. But the women actually seemed to enjoy it. I noticed Jean-Paul standing in the doorway, chuckling. His eyes met mine and he winked at me.
    Then the band arrived and the activity turned to dancing. After a few dances, Jean-Paul claimed me and held me close as we drifted around the floor in a slow fox-trot. “I want to say something to you,” he muttered, steering me toward the edge of the crowd. My pulse rate quickened. Was this a proposal?
    “I think you should go home,” he said, eyeing me