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

 

 

I saw the glint of venom in those dark eyes. “My, my, we are sharpening our claws these days, are we not? But don’t get too catty, honey. Men don’t want a woman who is too sharp for a wife. Especially the sort of man you’ll wind up marrying.” She took a long sip of her drink and gave David a smoldering glance over her cocktail glass. “They like to be babied, cosseted, made a fuss of, don’t they, David?”

 

I heard an intake of breath in the crowd around us as Mrs. Simpson addressed him by the first name the family used and didn’t call him “sir” as was required in public, even by close relatives like me.

 

“So is Mummy here?” Mrs. Simpson looked around hopefully. I think she enjoyed the verbal battles that always ensued with my mother, who certainly gave as good as she got.

 

“No, she went back to Germany.”

 

“Sensible woman. That’s the place where things are looking up these days,” Mrs. Simpson said. “That Mr. Hitler. He seems to have the right ideas.”

 

“Do you think so?” I asked, shocked. “He seems to be like a funny little chap who just shouts a lot.”

 

“Oh no, honey. He’s got what it takes. You’ll see. He’ll have Europe eating out of his hand,” she said. “David’s impressed too, aren’t you?”

 

“He’s doing a lot of good things for Germany, I must say,” the Prince of Wales said. “Getting people back to work. Building roads. Giving Germans pride again. It’s all good.”

 

“Let’s hope so,” I said.

 

“So do you care to dance, Marina?” the prince asked. “I should probably trip the light fantastic first with my new relative, if you ladies will excuse us?”

 

He took Marina’s hand and steered her into the fray. Mrs. Simpson looked at me. “That poor girl is in for a rough time,” she said. “Does she have any idea what she’s letting herself in for?”

 

“I think they may be all right,” I said. “George seems quite smitten with her. He may shape up and do the right thing after all. You’d be surprised at the number of English princes who actually do, when the time comes.”

 

I gave her a little smile as we were swallowed up into the crowd. I felt terrific and it wasn’t the cocktails. Finally I was learning from my mother to hold my own in this cat-eat-cat society. I might even become the sort of clever, brittle woman who never lets herself be hurt. If only I could get that image of Darcy’s dressing gown out of my mind.

 

I heard the band change tunes and the crooner started singing a song that had been popular a while ago. It went, “I’ve danced with a man who’s danced with a girl who’s danced with the Prince of Wales. It was simply grand, he said, ‘Topping band,’ and she said, ‘Delightful, sir.’”

 

The dancers suddenly spotted the prince and there was laughter and applause. More people crammed in to watch David dancing with Marina. I’m slightly claustrophobic and hate the feeling of being trapped in a crowded, sweaty and noisy room, so I wandered instead into the dining room next door. This room was only populated with odd knots of people, it being too early for supper. A lovely spread had been laid out on the table against one wall—a whole cold salmon in the middle, oysters, prawns, cold chicken and pheasant, caviar and all the nice little things that go with it. When I had been one step away from starvation and living on baked beans I would have fallen upon it. Now I was content to scoop a little caviar onto a cracker and was just biting into it, careful not to spill it down my décolleté front, when I heard something that made me prick my ears up.

 

“No, I haven’t seen her for ages, darling.”

 

I turned around and saw two rather glamorous women, older than me and of that brittle, witty kind I had just been considering, standing together by the window, each with a cocktail glass in one hand, a cigarette holder in the other.

 

“She was away all summer, wasn’t she? Let it be known that she was going to the Med, but that wasn’t the case. I was there myself in August and she certainly wasn’t at any of the parties.” The voice was lowered. I could just make out the words. “Tell me, did you hear the rumor going around?”

 

“That she was preggers, darling? Oh yes, I did hear that. One finds it hard to believe. I mean, who knows how to take care of herself better than Bobo?”

 

The first voice grew even lower. I moved around the table, pretending to pick a grape from the bunch but actually positioning myself closer to the women. With the thump and wail of the music next door it was hard to overhear. “And if she was . . . you know . . . why didn’t she just pop to Harley Street and have it taken care of like any civilized person?”

 

“Catholic, darling. Doesn’t believe in that sort of thing.” This latter phrase was whispered but I managed to lip-read. Our class of person does have such good diction.