Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, FOLLOWED BY SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 11
KENSINGTON PALACE
It feels strange not having anything more to do with the investigation into Bobo’s death. Darcy will show the letters and photographs to Sir Jeremy and they’ll know how to look into the lives of powerful men. I must put the whole thing from my mind and just help Marina prepare for her wedding.
Queenie was in my room, waiting to undress me. “I ain’t going near that foreign lady no more,” she said. “You should have heard her shouting at me, and all because I used the wrong polish on a pair of shoes. Blimey, miss, you’d have thought I had just drowned her only child in a bathtub.”
I sighed. “I suppose you can’t be blamed for not knowing how to treat suede. I don’t possess any suede shoes. And it’s probably a good idea that you stay away from her. I really don’t want word of your behavior getting back to the princess or the major. They’d know you weren’t a suitable maid and it might even get back to the queen.”
“I don’t know why you think I’m so unsuitable,” she said. “I take care of you all right, don’t I?”
I shot her an exasperated look. “Queenie, since we’ve been here you’ve left one evening dress behind and soaked another one. Since we’ve been together you have burned, ironed, singed or shrunk almost everything I own. You really aren’t suited to any kind of work, but you have a good heart. You mean well and actually I’ve grown quite fond of you. The way one does with a dog that pees on the carpet.”
“I don’t pee on the carpet,” she said indignantly and yanked my dress over my head.
I think I was smiling as I fell asleep.
The next day it was strange not to be rushing about worrying. I had posted my letter to Mummy, but I went over to Belinda’s house, stocked it with some food for her and some flowers to cheer her up before she came back to London. And when I returned to the palace that afternoon I learned that I was invited to luncheon with Marina’s parents at the Dorchester the next day. So was Irmtraut, who appeared at breakfast the next morning wearing some sort of hideous national costume with silver buttons down the front. I was thankful she had chosen to dress like this, as it made my outfit look normal and even quite smart. I was a little apprehensive about meeting European royals, even if they had been deposed and exiled. But they turned out to be charming. Marina’s Danish-Greek father and her Russian-born mother both had a good sense of humor and spoke perfect English, and we had a pleasant luncheon together. I was even becoming accustomed to frequenting places like the Dorchester!
Marina told her mother about our shopping expeditions, as a result of which her mother declared she didn’t want to miss out on all the fun and we should all go to Bond Street before the shops closed. Her father said that wild horses couldn’t drag him to go shopping with a gaggle of women and retired to the bar. But we piled into a taxicab and had a spiffing time hunting down odd trousseau items like a blue garter, white silk stockings and a deliciously sinful negligee that made Irmtraut so upset in the shop that an assistant had to bring her a glass of water.
Marina’s mother came back to Kensington Palace with us for tea. Marina took her mama up to show her her suite. I followed, and we were halfway up the stairs when I spotted Queenie coming down. She was carrying an empty tea plate and cup and her mouth was liberally decorated with jam. What’s more, there were crumbs down the front of her black dress.
“Whatcher, miss,” she said, not batting an eyelid that she was passing two royal ladies.
“Queenie,” I hissed.
To my horror, Marina’s mother turned around. Oh golly. She thought I had been calling her.
“Yes, my dear?” she asked, looking puzzled. “I’m actually only a princess, not a queen.”
“I’m so sorry, Your Royal Highness,” I stammered. “I was speaking to a maid. Unfortunately her Christian name is Queenie.”
Luckily both Marina and her mother thought this was awfully funny and an international incident was avoided. I noticed that Queenie took advantage of the laughter to escape down the stairs. I resolved to speak to her sternly next time we were alone.
While we were having tea, a footman appeared with a note on a silver salver. I half expected it to be from Darcy, but it was addressed to Princess Marina. She took it, opened it and smiled. “Oh, how kind. It is from Princess Louise. She says the aunts usually meet for Sunday luncheon at Princess Alice’s apartment and they would love it if Georgiana and I were free to join them tomorrow.”
“That’s very nice of them,” I said. “Are you free?”
She glanced at her mother. “I promised Mama and Papa that I’d go to church with them, but after that we had no plans,” she said. “I think I should meet my future relatives, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” her mother agreed.