Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
“Well, he’s never been exactly the playboy type, has he?” Belinda took a tentative sip of tea. “I needed that,” she said. “Georgie, you’re a godsend. But what exactly are you doing here this early?”
“Two things,” I said. “I discovered to my chagrin last night that Queenie had left my blue evening gown hanging in your wardrobe. I had to wear the bottle green velvet to dinner at Buckingham Palace.”
“Not the one that Queenie ironed the wrong way?” Belinda looked horrified. “Darling, how utterly awful. Didn’t you die of embarrassment?”
“I think I managed to drape my mother’s fox fur stole effectively. At least I hope I did.”
“Darling, has it ever occurred to you that you’d be better off without a maid?”
“Many times. But unfortunately if I go and stay at Kensington Palace it is expected that I bring my maid with me.”
Belinda looked up from her tea with horror. “You are letting Queenie loose in a palace? With royal persons?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve told her she is not to leave my quarters and I’m having meals sent up to her on a tray.”
Belinda shook her head. “You’re living with a ticking time bomb. Do go up to my room and retrieve your gown. I saw it hanging there last night and wondered when I had ever bought that shade of blue. It’s just not me.”
I went up and retrieved it. When I came down Belinda was examining herself in the mirror.
“God, I look a sight, don’t I?”
“Are you well, Belinda?” I asked. She did look a little hollow-eyed and I wondered if too many late nights were finally catching up with her.
“Me? Of course. Yes, I’m fine. I probably picked up a little chill on the ship. You wouldn’t like to be an angel and make me some toast, would you?”
I laughed. “Belinda, surely you know how to make toast! You’d better find yourself a new maid before you starve.”
“The problem is that I don’t know whether I can afford to pay one. A proper maid, I mean. Not another Queenie, although God forbid that there are two of her in the world.”
I went back into the kitchen and sliced bread to put under the grill. “The other reason I came to see you was that I need a favor,” I called through to her. “I’ve been asked to take Princess Marina around London. She’s frightfully chic and I realized I don’t know any of the smart shops or evening spots. So can you give me some pointers? My experience of clothes shopping stops with Harrods and Barkers.”
She looked up in horror. “Darling, you can’t take a visiting princess to Barkers, especially not a chic one. Barkers is for elderly matrons of the county set. All right for tweeds to wear between hunts. But one doesn’t take a visiting princess to a shop.”
“One doesn’t?”
“No. Of course not. You take her to a designer and let her view their collection. Much more civilized—gilt and brocade sofas, chandeliers, champagne and privacy. It’s what I’d do all the time if I could afford it. And London has some wonderful designers’ salons now. Schiaparelli has a salon here now, you know. And darling Molyneux.” (She pronounced it Molynucks, as one does.) “And Norman Hartnell is an up-and-coming who is worth visiting. I know some of the other royals like him. A little too stuffy for me, but then, I design my own clothes.”
“But what if Princess Marina wants to shop for undergarments?”
“Then you go to a designer who makes those things. Lucile still is the one, I suppose. Really, Georgie, you haven’t a clue, have you?”
“I’ve never had the money to have a clue,” I said. “When I came out we had our dressmaker copy from pictures of fashionable gowns. The result wasn’t always successful. Golly, I should find out if Marina has the money to afford designers. I was told that her family was not at all well off, but she looks stunningly chic to me.”
“Anyone who has lived in Paris knows how to look chic by nature. They take a little black dress, throw on a scarf and voila,” Belinda said. “If ever I can open my own salon I’ll show British matrons that they don’t have to be dowdy.”
“You just have to marry a rich husband, Belinda,” I said.
“Just like that,” she said, turning away. “One doesn’t always get what one wants in life, does one?”
“No, I suppose not,” I said, upset by the note of bitterness in her voice. “But why don’t you come with us when I take the princess around London. You know all the chic places and where to buy cosmetics and get one’s hair done. And then there are nightclubs. What if she wants to go out on the town at night? I’ve never even been to a nightclub. Where does one start?”
“Don’t take her to the Embassy,” Belinda said quickly. “She’s likely to meet her future husband there, and God knows who he might be with.”
“Not the Embassy,” I repeated.
“Ciro’s is safe, I suppose. Usually has a good cabaret. And then there’s the Kit-Cat and El Morocco. Also safe. But it’s not really done to go to a club without an escort. Only ladies of the night do that.”