Malice at the Palace (11 page)

“Not exactly. I did say he had been a bit of a playboy.”

“That is a classic understatement,” she said.

“Maybe he'll reform. He seems to be fond enough of her.”

Belinda took the cup of tea I had just poured for her. “I doubt he'll change. Maybe long enough to produce the heir and the spare. But then in most royal marriages it's back to the little wife turning a blind eye to the husband's wandering, isn't it?”

“It does seem to be. Although the Duke and Duchess of York seem happy with each other.”

“Well, he's never been exactly the playboy type, has he?” Belinda took a tentative sip of tea. “I needed that,” she said. “Georgie, you're a godsend. But what exactly are you doing here this early?”

“Two things,” I said. “I discovered to my chagrin last night that Queenie had left my blue evening gown hanging in your wardrobe. I had to wear the bottle green velvet to dinner at Buckingham Palace.”

“Not the one that Queenie ironed the wrong way?” Belinda looked horrified. “Darling, how utterly awful. Didn't you die of embarrassment?”

“I think I managed to drape my mother's fox fur stole effectively. At least I hope I did.”

“Darling, has it ever occurred to you that you'd be better off without a maid?”

“Many times. But unfortunately if I go and stay at Kensington Palace it is expected that I bring my maid with me.”

Belinda looked up from her tea with horror. “You are letting Queenie loose in a palace? With royal persons?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “I've told her she is not to leave my quarters and I'm having meals sent up to her on a tray.”

Belinda shook her head. “You're living with a ticking time bomb. Do go up to my room and retrieve your gown. I saw it hanging there last night and wondered when I had ever bought that shade of blue. It's just not me.”

I went up and retrieved it. When I came down Belinda was examining herself in the mirror.

“God, I look a sight, don't I?”

“Are you well, Belinda?” I asked. She did look a little hollow-eyed and I wondered if too many late nights were finally catching up with her.

“Me? Of course. Yes, I'm fine. I probably picked up a little chill on the ship. You wouldn't like to be an angel and make me some toast, would you?”

I laughed. “Belinda, surely you know how to make toast! You'd better find yourself a new maid before you starve.”

“The problem is that I don't know whether I can afford to pay one. A proper maid, I mean. Not another Queenie, although God forbid that there are two of her in the world.”

I went back into the kitchen and sliced bread to put under the grill. “The other reason I came to see you was that I need a favor,” I called through to her. “I've been asked to take Princess Marina around London. She's frightfully chic and I realized I don't know any of the smart shops or evening spots. So can you give me some pointers? My experience of clothes shopping stops with Harrods and Barkers.”

She looked up in horror. “Darling, you can't take a visiting princess to Barkers, especially not a chic one. Barkers is for elderly matrons of the county set. All right for tweeds to wear between hunts. But one doesn't take a visiting princess to a shop.”

“One doesn't?”

“No. Of course not. You take her to a designer and let her view their collection. Much more civilized—gilt and brocade sofas, chandeliers, champagne and privacy. It's what I'd do all the time if I could afford it. And London has some wonderful designers' salons now. Schiaparelli has a salon here now, you know. And darling Molyneux.” (She pronounced it Molynucks, as one does.) “And Norman Hartnell is an up-and-coming who is worth visiting. I know some of the other royals like him. A little too stuffy for me, but then, I design my own clothes.”

“But what if Princess Marina wants to shop for undergarments?”

“Then you go to a designer who makes those things. Lucile still is the one, I suppose. Really, Georgie, you haven't a clue, have you?”

“I've never had the money to have a clue,” I said. “When I came out we had our dressmaker copy from pictures of fashionable gowns. The result wasn't always successful. Golly, I should find out if Marina has the money to afford designers. I was told that her family was not at all well off, but she looks stunningly chic to me.”

“Anyone who has lived in Paris knows how to look chic by nature. They take a little black dress, throw on a scarf and voila,” Belinda said. “If ever I can open my own salon I'll show British matrons that they don't have to be dowdy.”

“You just have to marry a rich husband, Belinda,” I said.

“Just like that,” she said, turning away. “One doesn't always get what one wants in life, does one?”

“No, I suppose not,” I said, upset by the note of bitterness in her voice. “But why don't you come with us when I take the princess around London. You know all the chic places and where to buy cosmetics and get one's hair done. And then there are nightclubs. What if she wants to go out on the town at night? I've never even been to a nightclub. Where does one start?”

“Don't take her to the Embassy,” Belinda said quickly. “She's likely to meet her future husband there, and God knows who he might be with.”

“Not the Embassy,” I repeated.

“Ciro's is safe, I suppose. Usually has a good cabaret. And then there's the Kit-Cat and El Morocco. Also safe. But it's not really done to go to a club without an escort. Only ladies of the night do that.”

“I suppose her future husband might want to come with us,” I said.

“I doubt it. He'd be bound to run into one of his past conquests who might say the wrong thing. He has been far too friendly with far too many people.”

“Bobo Carrington, for example,” I said, realizing I might have a mine of information in my friend. “You move in smart circles. What do you know about her?”

“Who doesn't know everything about Bobo?” Belinda laughed. “She's one of the most visible people in London. So now that I think about it, you might not want to take Princess Marina to any nightclub. The risk of running into Bobo is just too high and Bobo is not always discreet in what she says, especially after she has had a few cocktails and has injected herself with something stronger. She's quite likely to breeze up to Marina, introduce herself as George's mistress and offer her some cocaine.”

“Do you think she was”—I corrected myself, not wanting to reveal the truth to Belinda just yet—“is still his mistress or has the relationship ended?”

“I don't know. I don't follow the ups and downs of Prince George's sex life.” And she laughed.

“Have you seen Bobo with him recently?” I asked. “Is there anyone else she's involved with?”

Belinda looked up, amused. “Why this interest in Bobo?”

“Oh, simply because someone at Kensington hinted that she'd been involved with Prince George and suggested that we try to shield Princess Marina from gossip,” I said hastily.

“Darling, Bobo has always been just one of many. There was Poppy Baring, the banking heiress. And let me see, who else? He's worked his way through the top layers of London society, both male and female.”

“Bobo is in the top layer then, is she?”

“She likes to pretend she is. Between ourselves I think she started life more humbly and has learned to reinvent herself. She's a great opportunist, our dear Bobo, I'll tell you that much. Has a nose to sniff out anyone with money and then makes a beeline for them, turning on the full force of her charm.” She paused, thinking, then added, “One hasn't seen her around as much as one used to. But then she's not as young as she used to be. And drug use does take its toll.”

“So you haven't seen her with anyone else recently, then?” I asked.

“Of course I've been away, but I hadn't seen her for some time, until I bumped into her at Crockford's the other night. She was being frightfully gay and witty as usual. Almost as if she was trying too hard. But then she went into another room and I saw her talking to some American. I don't know who he was. I hadn't seen him before, but Bobo suddenly started acting differently around him. Awkward. Uneasy. Maybe she had him in her sights and was playing the ‘innocent little miss and it's my first time at a gambling club and I need a big strong man to show me what to do' routine.”

“As you often do,” I reminded her.

She grinned. “It usually works wonders.”

“Did she go off with the American?”

“I can't tell you. I think he left soon after. He didn't look as if he was enjoying himself. Not the usual Crockford's type. Didn't look comfortable in evening dress, if you know what I mean.”

A strange look came over her face. “In fact the odd thing is I thought I saw her leaving with—” She broke off suddenly, then shook her head. “No, it couldn't have been.”

“Who?”

“Nothing. It doesn't matter.” She waved a hand expansively. “Take Princess Marina to the Café de Paris. That's grand enough and staid enough that none of George's or Bobo's cronies will be there.”

“I'd better be getting back to the palace. I'm supposed to be at the princess's beck and call,” I said. “Will you come with me when I have to take her around? It could be fun, shopping for a trousseau at all the salons.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I'm not sure if I'll have time.”

“What do you mean? You've just come home. Of course you have time.”

As I stood up to walk to the front door I turned back suddenly. “And I have a brilliant idea—you could design her an outfit. If she wears it, it would really put you on the map.”

I didn't get the response I expected. “I suppose I could,” she said hesitantly.

I'd expected her to jump up, hugging me and yelling, “Darling, you're a genius.”

“Come on, Belinda,” I said. “This could be your big chance. If Princess Marina wears your clothing, everyone will want it.”

She nodded. “You're right. I wonder if I have time to pull it off.”

“Time to pull it off? What else are you doing right now? Buck up and get on with it!”

“Right.” She gave me a resolute smile. “I will. She's tall, isn't she? About my height?”

“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.”

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.

“I met him when he was in Paris. He said he'd be honored to design the gown for a royal wedding,” she said. “He's sent me sketches, but I haven't tried anything on yet. But he's wonderful, isn't he?”

I didn't answer, having no idea what his designs looked like. So she went on. “I have to arrange for my fittings with him. But what I really wanted to do was to go to ordinary shops. I've heard about Harrods and Selfridges. I think shopping there would be such fun. I have most of the important items for my trousseau. It's just the little things I still need. Cosmetics and undergarments and a sinful negligee, maybe?”

There was an intake of breath from Countess Irmtraut. Marina turned to her. “Traudi, don't be so stuffy. I will be a married woman, after all.”

“I can certainly take you to look for those sorts of things,” I said.

“And a theater, maybe? I want to make the most of being an invisible person.”

“After all those pictures in the newspapers, I rather suspect you'll be recognized,” I said. “But I'm happy to take you to Harrods. And even Selfridges, although my friend would say it's a shop for housewives up from the country and typists.”

“Then I'll pretend to be a housewife up from the country,” she said. “Mrs. Smith.”

We laughed.

“My friend suggests we start by lunching at the Savoy Grill,” I said. “It's the sort of place one goes to see and be seen.”

“All right. I'll go up and change into something a little smarter then,” she said. She put down the newspaper and left the room. I was about to follow when I remembered Irmtraut. Oh crikey. She'd have to come too, wouldn't she?

“Of course you are invited as well, Countess. A good luncheon to make up for the toad in the hole?”

“Thank you,” she said. “There is no point in my changing clothes, I do not own items of fashion.”

I left her sitting at the writing desk scribbling away furiously. I suspect she was telling her mother or sister how badly she was being treated in England. Before I went up to change I went to look for the major. I found him coming around the side of the building, striding out in true military fashion.

“Oh, Major,” I said, “I was coming to see you.”

“How are you bearing up?” he asked. “You've had a nasty shock, Lady Georgiana. Are you sure you shouldn't stay in bed today to recover? Most girls would have swooned at the sight of a dead body.”

“I'm made of sterner stuff, Major,” I said. “I come from a long line of Rannoch chieftains who went on fighting as their limbs were hacked off.”

He laughed. “Good sense of humor too. I think the queen chose well. So what can I do for you now?”

I chewed on my lip. “It's the delicate question of money. I'm supposed to take Princess Marina out and around and nobody mentioned how the financial side would be handled. I mean, am I supposed to—”

“Oh good Lord no. Simple enough,” he cut in. “You tell me where you'd like to go. I'll telephone ahead and let them know who is coming and ask that the bill be sent to Kensington Palace. Just in case there is any difficulty I'll give you a letter to show them. But I don't anticipate any problems.”

“Oh, that sounds splendid.” I sighed. “So it would be all right to take the princess to lunch at the Savoy Grill, would it? A friend suggested that would be a suitable place to see and be seen.”

“Admirable choice. Of course.” He nodded approval. “Now off you go and show the princess the best of what London has to offer.”

I returned to the apartment with a grin on my face. Carte blanche to go out and have a good time when someone else was footing the bill. What could be nicer? For a moment the dead girl in the courtyard and my commission to question people at the palace had faded into the background. I went up and changed into the cashmere cardigan and soft jersey skirt that had become my acceptable winter outfit. I had been given both by my mother last Christmas. It was too bad that she was a petite five foot three while I was a healthy five six, as she had oodles of lovely clothes I could have inherited when she discarded them. But I looked presentable enough as I examined myself in the mirror.

“I'm going to take the princess out for lunch,” I said to Queenie. “Don't forget to stay put. Remember the ghosts.”

“Yes, miss,” she said. “Don't worry. I ain't leaving this room. Not for love nor money. Ruddy ghosts!”

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 pâté 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.

“You have charming friends, Georgiana,” Marina said. “I am so happy to attend a London party. My life has been quite boring recently. This can be my final fling, yes?”

“Fling? What do you wish to throw?” Irmtraut asked.