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

 

 

“Wait until you meet her and then you’ll get an idea of what she likes to wear. I’ll keep you posted on what she wants to do,” I said. A sudden dreadful thought struck me. “Crikey, Belinda. What if she says she wants to mingle with London society and I can’t take her to nightclubs?”

 

“Lunch at the Savoy Grill, darling. That’s a good start. You’ll see everyone you know if you sit there for half an hour. And bring her to the new Noel Coward play—oh, I know, all those rumors about Noel and the prince, but who could resist Noel’s charm, and you know him quite well, don’t you? Feather in your cap.”

 

“He did stay with my mother last Christmas, so I know him a little,” I said.

 

“There you are. You introduce her to the great man. She’s impressed. Noel will invite you both for cocktails and you’ll meet everyone who matters. Situation solved.”

 

“Belinda, you’re brilliant,” I said. “Now let’s hope the palace has allotted sufficient funds for all this. Designers and the Savoy aren’t exactly cheap.”

 

“They surely don’t expect you to pay to host her?”

 

“They did when that princess came from Bavaria, remember?” I said. “The queen has no clue about money, or that some of us don’t have any. But this time Major Beauchamp-Chough is in charge at Kensington and I suspect he’s the keeper of the purse.”

 

“Major Beauchamp-Chough,” she said. “That name rings a bell.”

 

“Life Guards. Recently Prince George’s private secretary. Frightfully stiff upper lip. But quite good-looking.”

 

“Married?” she asked.

 

“I’ve no idea. There is no Mrs. Major at Kensington and he hasn’t mentioned one, but that doesn’t mean she’s not happily at home in Shropshire with the children.”

 

“I don’t think a military man is my type,” Belinda said. “Even if he is good-looking. Too bossy and correct. And I couldn’t exist on a major’s pay.”

 

“I’ll let you know when shopping sprees are planned,” I said. “This could be a lot of fun.”

 

“You’re right,” she said. “A lot of fun.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 13

 

 

 

STILL NOVEMBER 5, GUY FAWKES DAY

 

BACK AT THE PALACE

 

When I arrived back at Kensington Palace, my cheeks burning from the strong north wind that swept across Kensington Gardens, I found that Princess Marina had finished breakfast and was sitting in the morning room, reading the newspapers. Countess Irmtraut sat at the desk in the window, writing a letter.

 

“So many pictures of me,” Marina said, holding up a paper with a look of incredulous delight on her face. “Even in the Daily Mirror, which I gather is rather socialist in leanings. I had no idea my arrival would be such big news.”

 

“The world has been rather short of good news for some time,” I said. “A royal wedding is something everyone can look forward to.” I poured myself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the tray and sat down beside her.

 

“It’s rather nice being the bringer of good news to people, isn’t it? Makes one feel useful. I’m looking forward to taking on royal duties with George as soon as we marry. The queen said how glad she was that we could relieve them of some of the burden. The poor king looks so fragile now, doesn’t he, and Queen Mary doesn’t like to leave him.”

 

I sighed, because I too had noticed how old and drawn he looked. “He never really recovered from that bout of pneumonia he had,” I said. “And I think worry about his oldest son is also contributing.”

 

“But I’ve met David,” she said. “He seems delightful. Why should his father worry?”

 

“Because he refuses to marry someone suitable, like you. And an awful American woman has him in her clutches.”

 

“I did hear a rumor to that effect,” Marina said, glancing across at Irmtraut, who had looked up. “Isn’t she still married to someone else?”

 

“I believe so, but she wants to divorce him. And she’s been divorced before too.”

 

“Quite unsuitable,” Irmtraut sniffed. “Why was this man not brought up to put duty first? We all were.”

 

“So was I,” I said. “And so was the Prince of Wales, I’m quite sure. He just prefers to put himself first.”

 

“You’ve been out for a walk,” Marina said.

 

“Yes. I went to visit a friend of mine who knows all about fashion,” I said. “I asked her which designers she would recommend for you to visit. She suggested Norman Hartnell and Molyneux. Schiaparelli has a salon here now too.”

 

“Molyneux is designing my wedding gown,” she said, her face lighting up.

 

I must have shown surprise, having been told how poor her family was since they were ousted from Greece.