Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
A taxicab was summoned to take Marina, Irmtraut and me to the Savoy. The outing was a huge success. We happened to pass the horse guards out training in the Mall, the plumes on their helmets and their horses’ manes floating out behind them in the breeze. This produced an “ah” even from Irmtraut.
They thought Trafalgar Square was charming and expressed an interest in going to the National Gallery and then we pulled out under the brightly lit canopy of the Savoy. Major Beauchamp-Chough had clearly done what he promised and telephoned ahead because we were welcomed with great reverence and whisked to the best table. I hadn’t had enough luncheons at smart establishments to know what to recommend but Marina confidently ordered a lobster bisque, a paté de foie gras and veal dijonnaise. Irmtraut and I followed suit. Marina also chose a light French wine to accompany the food.
“I don’t think I want a cocktail to start with,” she said. “Too much alcohol at midday and I’m useless for the afternoon. And I think we should visit Molyneux just to set up times for my fittings and see how he’s getting along with the dress.”
The wine was brought and approved. I noticed many heads turned in our direction. It’s funny the rush of pleasure that this brought. Marina didn’t seem to notice, but I think she was just more poised than I. The first course arrived. Deliciously light and creamy. The foie gras was superb. We were in the middle of the veal when a voice said, “What-ho, Georgie, old bean. Long time no see.”
And there in front of me was the chubby form of Gussie Gormsley, son of a newspaper magnet. He was the closest thing to a playboy with whom I had ever been involved and I remembered that I had encountered Prince George at one of his naughty parties with a Negro jazz band playing and cocaine being snorted in the kitchen. As he approached I also remembered he had tried to seduce me once. Obviously he had forgotten the circumstances in which we parted because he was beaming. “Hello, Gussie,” I said. “Let me introduce my table companions. Your Royal Highness, may I present Augustus Gormsley.”
Gussie obviously recognized her and went rather pale. “Frightfully sorry to barge in on you, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “Damned bad form.”
“Not at all. I’m pleased to meet Georgiana’s friends and the London smart set.”
Before Gussie could inform Marina that I was certainly not part of any London smart set, I said, “Augustus’s father owns newspapers and magazines and Gussie is very much a young man about town.”
“Not for much longer, old thing.” Gussie made a face. “Haven’t you heard? I’m getting married. Finally getting hitched. What a blow to the womanhood of the nation, eh?”
“Congratulations, Gussie,” I said. “Who are you marrying?”
“You know her. Primrose Asquey d’Asquey. She was at school with you.”
“But I went to her wedding a couple of years ago,” I said. “Didn’t she marry Roland Aston-Poley?”
“Only lasted a few months,” he said. “Marriage was doomed from the start, wasn’t it? I mean, Asquey d’Asquey becoming Roley Poley? Hopeless. And of course he had a severe gambling problem, didn’t he? And drank like a fish and got very maudlin when in his cups.”
“Please give my very best to Primrose,” I said. “I hope you’ll both be very happy.”
“And may I extend my best wishes for your happiness, Your Highness,” Gussie said. “I’m a pal of your future husband. Jolly nice chap, old George. Ripping fun.”
Marina smiled politely.
“What does the prince like to rip?” Irmtraut asked. “He has fun ripping paper or fabric?”
Gussie stared as if he had just noticed her.
“No, it’s just a word. Just like ‘smashing’ doesn’t mean actually smashing anything.”
“This English language is very peculiar,” Irmtraut said.
“Oh, you’ll get the hang of it,” Gussie said.
“Hang?”
Oh golly. This could go on for hours. I realized I hadn’t introduced them either. Irmtraut would not like that. “Gussie, this is Countess Irmtraut von Dinkelfingen-Hackensack,” I said. “A cousin of the princess.”
“How do you do?” Irmtraut nodded in regal fashion.
“Absolutely tickety-boo, thanks,” Gussie said.
“Gussie, our meal is getting cold,” I said, before I had to explain to Irmtraut what “tickety-boo” might mean.
“Right-o, old bean. Where are you staying? I’m having a little party and I’d love you to bring Her Highness. Show her what London has to offer, what?”
“How kind,” Marina said, before I could answer. I wasn’t at all sure that one of Gussie’s parties would be the sort of place one should take a princess, especially since her future husband would have had flings with most of the other participants.
“Tomorrow night. My place. You know where it is, don’t you, Georgie?”
“The flat on Green Park. Yes, of course.” I gave him what I hoped was a warning look, meaning no drugs, no hints about Prince George’s past life.
“Jolly good show. About nine-ish, then?”
And off he went.