Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
“So you think she actually went away to have the baby?”
The first woman nodded. “Must have. She wouldn’t have risked being recognized in London.”
“Switzerland, do you think?”
“Possibly. But there are places closer by, aren’t there? That one on the south coast . . .”
I took a deep breath and decided to take my chances. I went over to them. “Excuse me, but are you talking about Bobo Carrington, by any chance?” I asked. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping she’d be here tonight. I’ve been wondering about her too. I caught a glimpse of her at Crockford’s the other night, but that’s the only time recently.”
They were looking at me suspiciously, not quite sure who I was.
“I’m sorry. It was rude of me to barge in, but I’ve been trying to find out where Bobo disappeared to. I’m Georgiana Rannoch, by the way,” I said. “I brought Princess Marina tonight.”
The frowns eased into smiles. “Oh. You’re Binky’s sister. I didn’t realize you knew Bobo.”
“Oh yes. Doesn’t everyone?” I gave them a bright smile.
“Everyone in trousers, darling,” one said.
“Yes, I was thinking about that the other day,” I said. “She doesn’t really have any close female friends, does she? If she does, I’ve never met them. One sees her at a party. One exchanges pleasantries, and that’s about it.”
“As you say, that’s about it,” one of the women said. “I never really took to her myself. Cold and calculating little minx.” She looked at her friend, who nodded agreement. “And I don’t condone that whole drug business. I know plenty of people at this party would disagree with me, and if the new little princess was not here tonight I can tell you there would be sniffing in the kitchen at this moment. But we’re all on our best behavior. And most of them aren’t stupid enough to inject themselves the way Bobo does. She’s heading for an early grave, I’m afraid.”
“So tell me.” I moved closer. “If she really was preggers, does anyone actually know who the father of the child is?”
“Bobo does, presumably. But she’s keeping a low profile,” the first woman said.
Her friend looked around before saying, “Of course it’s quite possible it was one of your royal relatives. But he says not. And he may not always be the best behaved, but he’s as honest as any Boy Scout. So any one of the other candidates. Bobo isn’t always too choosy after a night of booze and the other stuff.”
“The other candidates? Any ideas who they might be?”
“Darling, she has worked her way through every male under sixty-five in London society. I suppose we’ll just have to see who the poor little thing looks like.”
“So she’s never had one particular sugar daddy—someone who takes care of her?”
The two women laughed. “If anyone can take care of herself, it’s Bobo. I hope I’m not putting my foot in it, running her down. She’s a friend of yours, is she?”
“Not really a friend. Someone I’ve bumped into from time to time and we had a good laugh at a house party last year,” I said, trying to keep my acquaintance with Bobo suitably vague. “I can’t say I know her well or that she’s ever shared confidences.”
“She doesn’t,” one of the women said. “She’s good at that. She gets other people to talk about themselves but shares no secrets.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” I said. “Does anyone know who she really is? I mean, family background and all that? I’ve never met anyone who was presented with her.”
“Rumor has it that she comes from Argentina,” the first woman said. “That would explain the Catholic leanings. And there are plenty of ne’er-do-well sons of English aristocracy over there, presumably having their way copulating with local girls. But if you want my personal opinion”—she leaned closer—“I think she’s a little upstart, pretending to be what she’s not.”
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
“One just gets the feeling that she’s not really one of us. Of course she’s very good at hiding it, and she’s very lovely, and funny, and generous, and I’m sure she’s divine in the sack, so nobody probes too deeply. But one day it will all come out, mark my words.”