Authors: Rhys Bowen
Naughty In Nice (11 page)
“It must be frightfully lonely down in that library,” he went on, while I stared at him in horror. “So completely cut off from the rest of us. I’d better check on you from time to time to see that you’re all right.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I shall be perfectly safe. I’ll lock my door.”
“Foggy? Who are you talking to?” came Ducky’s strident voice from the end of the hall.
“Just coming, old thing. Wanted to make sure our new arrival had everything she needed.” He loaded those last words with double meaning. And to my horror, he reached out to touch me. I wasn’t sure which part of me he was aiming for, but I didn’t wait to find out. I pushed past him and fled down the stairs. Then I locked the library door. “Oh, golly,” I muttered. This was an added complication I didn’t need. If Ducky found out that Foggy was chasing me, she’d probably think I was encouraging him. Why did men have to be so bloody stupid? (I know a lady never says “bloody.”)
The thought of men and their stupidity brought something rushing back that I had kept firmly from my conscious mind all day. There are other men called Darcy, I told myself over and over again. I was probably worrying over nothing.
Chapter 10
Villa Not Very Gloriosa, Nice
January 23, 1933
Help. Must escape immediately. Choice between dusty
musty library and sharing with the most unpleasant child
I’ve ever met. And nocturnal visits from the lecherous Foggy.
Not to mention serious lack of food and entertainment and
no chance to meet Sir Toby.
January 23, 1933
Help. Must escape immediately. Choice between dusty
musty library and sharing with the most unpleasant child
I’ve ever met. And nocturnal visits from the lecherous Foggy.
Not to mention serious lack of food and entertainment and
no chance to meet Sir Toby.
I rose early with one thought in mind. I had to find Belinda and somewhere else to stay.
I dressed and went down to breakfast. Queenie appeared from the kitchen, brushing crumbs from her front. “I was going to bring you tea, miss, but they didn’t have no tea, only coffee, and besides, your door was locked.”
“It’s all right. I’m up now and I don’t think I’d have dared to eat or drink anything in that library,” I said.
The gargoyle appeared, hands on hips. “Breakfast? They do not want breakfast until nine. They are very late risers.”
“How about some coffee and croissants now, to keep me going?” I asked.
“Maybe possible.” She shrugged and sniffed, went away and came back with a cup of strong black coffee and some of the previous day’s stale bread, sliced with a small dish of apricot jam.
I ate a couple of mouthfuls and had a swig of coffee, which was disgusting and tasted like liquid tar, then I left a note saying that I had gone out for a walk. A long walk preferably.
I stepped outside to a delightful day. The sun was shining. The sky was blue and the air was perfumed, just as I had imagined it when I stood in Victoria Station. All things considered it was better being here than serving soup. I followed the lane down into town and eventually came to the seafront, where I stood leaning against the railing, watching early risers take their morning constitutional. The sea sparkled in the morning sunshine. Farther down the Promenade there was an impressive-looking pier and behind the town green hills rose, dotted with villas—like the one in which I had expected to stay, no doubt.
I stood for a while, just drinking in the scene, breathing the fresh salty air. It would be no good looking for Belinda too early. She rarely rose before ten—and she probably wouldn’t be in her own bed anyway. But at least if she was staying at the Hotel Negresco, as she had mentioned, I could leave a note for her and meet her later.
The enticing smell of freshly baked bread reminded me that I needed breakfast. There were several little open-air cafés along the boulevard. I stopped at one and indulged in good coffee and a basket of croissants. Much later, feeling full and content, I followed the boulevard until I came to the Hotel Negresco, a glittering white building topped with pink Eastern-style domes. I went up the steps and into the marble foyer. A young man in blue and gold uniform leaped up immediately to ask how he could assist me. I asked for Miss Warburton-Stoke. The young man went to have a conversation with another man in a smart suit. The latter checked a ledger then came over to me. The young lady was not registered at the hotel. Had she not been there at all during the past week? I asked. Again he shook his head. He was not aware of a young lady of that name.
Now what on earth was I going to do? It looked as if I might be trapped sharing a room with an obnoxious child at the Villa Gloriosa, dying slowly of starvation while I dodged the attentions of Foggy and the awful Madame Lapiss. Not an enticing prospect. I supposed I could find the casino and camp out there later in the day in the hope that Belinda would show up. I was about to walk away when another thought occurred to me.
“Sir Toby Groper,” I said. “Does he come into the hotel much?”
“Sir Toby? Sometimes. But not at this time of day. A drink with friends late in the evening maybe.” And he shrugged in that particularly unhelpful Gallic way.
“Do you know where his villa is?”
“Of course. It is on the Petit Corniche in the direction of Monte Carlo. About one, two kilometers beyond the town. But you cannot see it from the road. It is hidden away in a little cove.”
At least I knew where to look now. And maybe I could enact the sort of drama Belinda was so good at—twisting my ankle outside the gate, or being almost knocked over by a speeding car—yes, that was a good one. I wasn’t sure I could carry it off as well as Belinda, but it was worth a try.
I came out of the hotel and stood on the steps, wondering what to do next. Certainly not go back to the house of horror. I decided to take a look at the town and turned inland past the grounds of an elegant villa until I came to an area of commerce. Shops were just opening up their shutters and shopkeepers were putting out their wares. They called across to each other, good-natured insults and salutations in the strong southern dialect. I reached a little cobbled square, lined with more outdoor cafés, and suddenly there, drinking coffee, were my two new acquaintances from the train. I went over to them, delighted to see friendly faces.
“How good to see you,” I said. “I thought you were staying at a villa.”
“Oh, we are,” Vera replied. “But Coco has to meet a man from Grasse to discuss her new perfume, so we had the chauffeur drive us into town. But I’m surprised you’re so pleased to see us. We thought we’d been given the cold shoulder, didn’t we, Coco?”
“We were mortified. We did not know what we had done to offend you,” Coco Chanel agreed.
“What do you mean?”
“We spotted you yesterday evening, going into the casino. We called out to you but you passed us without saying a word.”
“The casino? I wasn’t at the casino. I was at the villa all evening.”
“Strange.” Vera looked at Coco. “I could have sworn it was you.”
“Absolutely. You must have a twin.”
“How fascinating,” I said. “I wish I had been at the casino. I spent a dreadfully dull evening with my family.”
“You must come and dine with us sometime,” Vera said. “Our hostess has an excellent chef.”
“What do you mean,
dine
?” Chanel demanded. “You must come to the villa this afternoon so that I can fit you for the clothes you will wear when you model for me at the unveiling of my collection.” She held up a warning hand as I was about to speak. “Do not say no. I will not hear of it. I absolutely insist. You are the look that I want—the true British aristocrat, isn’t she, Vera?”
dine
?” Chanel demanded. “You must come to the villa this afternoon so that I can fit you for the clothes you will wear when you model for me at the unveiling of my collection.” She held up a warning hand as I was about to speak. “Do not say no. I will not hear of it. I absolutely insist. You are the look that I want—the true British aristocrat, isn’t she, Vera?”
“Oh, rather,” Vera agreed.
I felt my face going red. “No, really, you don’t want me. I’ll do something terrible and embarrass you, I know I will.”
“Nonsense.” Coco laughed. “As Vera will tell you, it is quite impossible to embarrass me. I have survived all kinds of scandal in my life. I have developed a very thick skin. So come to the villa. Try on the clothes. You will see that what I ask you to do is not so terrible. Shall we say three o’clock?”
It certainly was tempting. I might be invited to stay for dinner and have something decent to eat. And I’d be away from my relatives.
“All right,” I said. “I will come.”
“It is called Villa Marguerite,” Vera said. “Out on the Petit Corniche—that’s the headland you see if you face to the east. You’ll need to take a taxicab. It’s too far to walk.”
“The Petit Corniche? Is it anywhere near Sir Toby Groper’s place?”
“My dear, positively on top of him.” Vera laughed. “We look down on his gardens and his swimming pool. Lovely place it is too—private beach and dock. And you should see the size of his yacht. I believe it’s bigger than the Duke of Westminster’s, isn’t it, Coco—and that’s saying something.”
That settled it. If becoming a fashion model was the only way to have a chance to meet Sir Toby, then I’d have to do it, and pray that I didn’t make too big a fool of myself.
I arrived home to find the relatives sitting on deck chairs on the lawn. They looked quite peeved as I approached.
“Where have you been all this time?” Fig demanded.
“I went to have coffee with friends in town,” I said.
“Friends?” Fig demanded. “I didn’t know you had friends here. Did you know she had friends here, Binky?”
I could see her brain working.
If she has friends, she can stay with them.
That was what she was thinking.
If she has friends, she can stay with them.
That was what she was thinking.
“Actually, people I met on the train,” I said. “One of them is a relative of sorts. Vera Bate Lombardi. Do you know her?”
A look passed between them. “Know
of
her . . .” Ducky said.
of
her . . .” Ducky said.
“Isn’t she the Duke of Cambridge’s . . .”
“Yes,” Ducky said firmly.
“And Coco Chanel, the dress designer,” I added.
“Chanel? You know Chanel?” The two women’s faces immediately lit up.
“Yes. I’m going to be modeling for her new collection,” I said breezily. “She’s unveiling it at a big party in a few days’ time.”
“And she wants you to be a model? You, of all people?” Fig looked at me as if she couldn’t believe Chanel could be that desperate.
“I’m exactly the type she wants for her new collection,” I said. “I’m going to her villa this afternoon to try on clothes. I probably won’t be back for dinner, so don’t wait for me.”
Frosty silence.
“We rather hoped you’d be a help with the children, not rushing off every second,” Fig said. Ducky nodded.
“I thought you brought Podge’s nanny with you,” I couldn’t resist saying. “You don’t exactly check up on him too often at home.”
“He comes down to us every teatime, doesn’t he, Binky?” Fig sounded affronted. “Every teatime regularly. And of course we brought Nanny. What we were hoping for was some schooling from you. He needs to learn to read and write.”
“And Maude shouldn’t fall behind in her lessons either,” Ducky said. “Not if she’s to get into a top school. We have her down for Roedean, you know.”
“Then I’m afraid I’d be hopeless,” I said. “I only know how to walk around with a book on my head.”
“You speak French,” Fig said. “You could teach the children that.”
She was determined that somehow I was going to earn my keep. I glanced down at her, thinking what an unpleasant person she was. I had observed several murders in my life. Hers, I believe, would be justified.
To show willingness to a point I gave both children a half hour’s drilling in French. I rather wished I knew more naughty words. I’d have taught them those—especially Maude. Lunch was even grimmer than dinner and breakfast had been. A small square of cheese was placed in the middle of the table with more bread, some tomatoes and olives.
“We like to eat lightly at lunchtime,” Ducky said. “Healthy for the digestion.”
After lunch they went for a siesta. I put on my least unfashionable frock, applied a touch of rouge and lipstick and set off for the Villa Marguerite. I had been told it was too far to walk, but there was no hope of finding a taxicab closer than the seafront. It was a delightfully warm afternoon, and the beach looked so inviting—with its gay changing cubicles, lines of wicker chaises, topped with bright blue cushions, and bright blue umbrellas. I was a little disappointed to find that the beach was made of stones, not sand, but nobody else seemed to mind. People in bathing suits were sunning themselves. I observed them, amazed at the daring nature of the bathing suits. Many of the women’s suits were absolutely backless and the men wore what could only be described as black underpants. Nanny would have swooned on the spot.
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