Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)

 

“Quite put out,” Fig repeated. “The king actually said to me, ‘Where’s young Georgiana then? Had enough of putting up with us old fogies? Rather spend time with the bright young things, what?’”

 

“And the little princesses missed you too, Georgie,” Binky said. “That Elizabeth is turning into a damned fine horsewoman. She said she was sorry you weren’t there to go riding with her.”

 

“It’s probably not the wisest thing to snub the king and queen, Georgie,” Fig said. “They are the heads of the family, after all. And you know how the queen absolutely expects one to show up at Balmoral.”

 

That was true enough. It was hard to find any excuse good enough to get out of it. It was even reported that a certain member of the royal clan timed her pregnancies so that she could miss Balmoral biennially. Actually we Rannochs didn’t mind it. We were used to freezing cold rooms and the piper waking everyone at dawn, not to mention the tartan wallpaper in the loo.

 

“We had a lovely time there this year, didn’t we, Binky?” Fig drained her coffee and got up to help herself to a piece of toast.

 

“Oh rather,” he agreed. “Of course, the weather wasn’t too kind. Rained every bally day, actually. Missed every bird I shot at. Apart from that it was quite jolly. They’ve a new piper who plays at dawn.”

 

“I’m sorry I had to miss it,” I said with a straight face. I turned back to Fig. “So I hear you’ve come into a legacy, Fig, and you’re having central heating put in.”

 

“Only a small legacy,” Fig said hurriedly. “My aunt lived very simply. No luxuries. She was very active in the Girl Guides until she died.”

 

“And you’re just down here until the new boiler is put in?”

 

“Actually we thought we might as well keep on here until the wedding,” Binky said and got a warning frown from Fig.

 

“The wedding?” I asked.

 

“The royal wedding,” Binky said.

 

“The Prince of Wales is finally going to buckle down and get married?” I asked in surprise.

 

“Not the Prince of Wales, although it’s certainly taking long enough for him to select someone suitable to be a future queen,” Fig said. “It’s the younger son, Prince George, who is to marry next month.”

 

I couldn’t have been more surprised. “George?” It came out as a squeak. Prince George, the king’s fourth son, was utterly charming and delightful and fun, but from all I’d heard (and seen on occasion) he had been rather a naughty boy. “So the king and queen are trying to rein him in.”

 

“What do you mean, rein him in?” Fig asked.

 

“One has heard rumors . . .” I glanced at Binky but got no reaction, so I supposed that news didn’t travel as far as Scotland or my relatives were so na?ve that they weren’t aware that behavior like George’s went on.

 

“Come now, Georgiana. Even princes of the realm are allowed to have a little fun in their youth,” Fig said. “As long as they do the right thing and marry well.”

 

Personally I thought that posing naked wearing nothing but a Guardsman’s bearskin and having an affair with Noel Coward were slightly more than “having a little fun.” I’d once spotted him at a party where cocaine was being snorted. There were rumors also of affairs with highly unsuitable women.

 

“Who is he marrying?” I asked.

 

“Princess Marina of Greece,” Binky said. “Danish royal family, you know. You’ve met her cousin Philip, haven’t you? Very handsome. Nice boy. Good sportsman.”

 

“And of course we’ve been invited to the wedding,” Fig added with satisfaction. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, would we, Binky?”

 

“Oh no,” Binky said. “Ripping good fun.”

 

“I wonder if I’m invited,” I said. “Is it to be a big affair?”

 

“Westminster Abbey,” Fig said. “I wouldn’t know if you’ve been included in the guest list. They have to draw the line somewhere.”

 

Binky pulled up his chair a little closer to me. “So, Georgie, what are your plans now you’ve returned from America? Are you staying in London?”

 

“I was borrowing a friend’s mews cottage,” I said, “but she has returned home unexpectedly so I’m having to move out. I was thinking of coming up to Castle Rannoch while I look for a suitable job, but of course that’s now out of the question. There is always my grandfather. . . .”

 

“The one in Essex?” Fig made it sound as if it were one of the outer circles of hell.

 

“Since the other one has been dead for many years the answer to that would be yes,” I replied. “He’s a perfectly charming person, just not—”

 

“Of our class,” Fig cut in. “You can’t seriously be thinking of living in Essex! What would the family say if they found out? I don’t think they would appreciate the news that you were staying with a Cockney in Essex, Georgiana. However charming he is.”

 

“Then do you have a better suggestion?” I asked.