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

 

“My betters?” Indignation now overtook surprise. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are, but I rather think we must be equals, unless you are Queen Victoria reincarnated.”

 

I saw uncertainty cross her face. “Are you not the girl who was sent to bring me pickled herring from Harrods?”

 

I tried not to grin. “I am Lady Georgiana, cousin to His Majesty,” I said. “May one ask your name?”

 

“Oh, thousand pardons,” the woman stammered, thoroughly flustered now. “I did not expect . . . we were not informed that His Majesty’s cousin would be visiting. And I did not expect a royal person to arrive alone in such a manner.” And she looked at my sodden mack and the puddle accumulating around my feet.

 

“Yes, I’m sorry. I realize I don’t look very royal,” I said. “But it’s raining cats and dogs out there and I don’t have a motorcar.”

 

She went and peered out of the window. “I do not see any cats and dogs,” she said.

 

“Just an expression.”

 

“Ah,” she said solemnly. “An English idiom. I must learn these things. Cats and dogs.” She nodded as if her brain had processed this information, then she gave me a little bowing jerk of the head. “I am the Countess Irmtraut von Dinkelfingen-Hackensack. I am the cousin of Princess Marina. Our mothers are related. My mother was a Pushova.”

 

I didn’t think I’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“A Pushova. My mother was a Pushova. The daughter of Prince Vladimir Pushov, related to the czar.”

 

“Oh, I see.” Thank heavens I hadn’t started to laugh!

 

“How do you do, Countess.” I held out my hand and she shook it heartily.

 

“Has the king sent you perhaps to assure that the accommodations are suitable?”

 

“Actually it was the queen who asked me to come and stay here to look after Princess Marina until her marriage.”

 

Countess Irmtraut frowned. “To stay here? Look after Her Highness? Why should this be necessary? She has me to look after her. And I know her wishes.”

 

Oh dear. She looked seriously put out. “I’m sure you do,” I said. “But the queen suggested that I acquaint Princess Marina with the way things are done in England and show her around London.”

 

“I see.” She did not look very happy.

 

“I don’t know which rooms I am to have,” I said. “I presume Major Beauchamp-Chough will show me to my quarters.”

 

“This major is the very correct Englishman who lives here?” she asked.

 

I nodded. “I believe so.”

 

“He is very military, I think,” she said. “Not a sympathetic man. Prince George, is he a sympathetic man? I do not wish someone like this major for Marina.”

 

“Prince George is very nice,” I could say with complete truth. “Very kind. Good sense of humor.”

 

“This is good. Not all princes are sympathetic. We have met some recently who are . . .” She broke off, weighing whether to proceed with this topic. “You are acquainted with Prince Siegfried perhaps?”

 

“Of Romania? Oh dear, yes. There was a push to make me marry him once.”

 

“Somebody pushed you? This is dangerous. Did you fall?”

 

“No, I meant that my relatives were keen on such a match for me. But he was awful. Arrogant. Cold. We called him Fishface.”

 

She looked troubled. “But he does not have the face of a fish, I think. He has the face of a human.”

 

I was beginning to find this conversation really tiring and was relieved when a door nearby opened and a man came out, striding toward me with purpose.

 

“Lady Georgiana,” he said, extending his hand to me. “I was just told that you were in the building. Forgive me for not welcoming you. Beauchamp-Chough. Major, Life Guards. I’m currently acting as His Royal Highness Prince George’s equerry and have been put in charge of this upcoming bun fight.”

 

“Bun fight?” Countess Irmtraut exclaimed. “There is to be a fight with pastries? This is an old English custom?”

 

The major and I both laughed.

 

“Actually it’s a familiar term for any kind of celebration, hence, the wedding,” the major said.

 

“I see. Another English joke.” Her face did not crack a smile, but the major exchanged a brief glance with me and there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

 

He was younger than I expected, but certainly of military bearing, tall, erect, with a neat little blond mustache. Quite good-looking, I noted.

 

“How do you do, Major Beauchamp-Chough.” I shook his hand while Countess Irmtraut stood and glowered.

 

“Most people call me B-C,” he said. “Or Major B-C, if you wish.” He grinned. “It refers to my initials, not my age.”

 

“But it is impossible for you to have been born before Christ,” Irmtraut said. “Surely you did not think we would believe you to be so old.”

 

When neither of us replied she sighed. “I see. Another English joke. Your country has much humor, I think.”