Authors: Rhys Bowen
Naughty In Nice (20 page)
“But what about my visit to Sir Toby?” I asked, torn between wanting to do my duty and the thought of Coco Chanel buying me clothes.
“I think we all agree that you cannot visit him dressed in such unsuitable clothing. Besides, he is probably still snoring, like all good Englishmen.” Coco dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Just a quick jaunt to Galeries Lafayette for the basics of survival. Later I can take you under my wing properly and get you set up for society.”
Galeries Lafayette turned out to be a department store in Massena Square—a huge area of red colonnaded buildings with fountains and statues. It was peopled with the most incredibly elegant women and I was horribly conscious of that cotton frock. The assistants almost fell over each other in their haste to reach Chanel. The basics of survival turned out to be a pair of wide-legged white linen trousers, a little navy linen jacket and a striped matelot shirt. “When on the French coast, what else but the look of a French sailor,” Chanel said. “Chic and fun.” She even managed to find me a jaunty French sailor’s hat. When I put them on I had to agree that I did look amazingly chic. Maybe there was hope for me after all.
As I stepped from the store into the blinding sunlight I almost collided with two women looking at the window display. I went to apologize but before I could utter a word Fig’s sharp voice said, “Georgie, it’s you. What are you wearing? I hardly recognized you.”
“Thanks,” I said with a satisfied smile. “Coco Chanel just bought the outfit for me at this store.”
I could positively see their jaws drop. “Coco Chanel? At Galeries Lafayette? What on earth for?” Fig demanded.
“She’s taken me under her wing.” I tried the Gallic shrug. “It’s good to see you, Fig. I hope all is well at the Villa Gloriosa.”
Fig frowned. “We’ve been so worried about you. We’ve just heard that you were involved in some kind of scandal last night—a stolen necklace? I did warn you about staying with your mother, didn’t I, Ducky?” Her sister nodded, both of them staring at me as if I was a fallen woman now. “Binky’s quite upset. He thinks you should come back and stay with us immediately.”
“Thank you for the kind offer, but I prefer a lovely bedroom overlooking the ocean to a camp bed in a library,” I said. At that moment Coco and Vera arrived to join me. “Sorry, I have to run. Madame Chanel doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” I flashed them a brilliant smile. “Isn’t shopping at Galeries Lafayette fun?”
Chapter 18
January 26, 1933
About to visit Sir Toby Groper. Will I have the nerve to
swipe the snuffbox?
About to visit Sir Toby Groper. Will I have the nerve to
swipe the snuffbox?
I left Mummy, Vera and Coco in town, ready to do battle with the obnoxious Inspector Lafite again, visit jewelers, and snoop around at the casino and station, while Franz, Mummy’s chauffeur, ran me back to the villa.
I felt a little trepidation as I made my way to Sir Toby’s place, attired in my new ensemble. I had never been a thief before. If I found the snuffbox, would I dare to take it? Another thought crossed my mind as I approached the tall wrought-iron gates. I had heard and seen enough to know about Sir Toby’s ruthlessness and recklessness. If he had dared to pocket a snuffbox from Buckingham Palace, was it possible that he had known the necklace I would be wearing belonged to the queen? Was it also possible that his son was in league with him and together they had managed to steal it? I would have to tread very carefully. Frankly, I almost lost my nerve when I spotted the villa, nestled among umbrella pines.
It was a low, dazzling white building with an impressive portico of Roman columns. The thought of a vestal virgin going to the sacrifice did cross my mind. I knocked and the door was opened by the young man I had seen that morning. He was now fully clothed—remarkably formally for the Riviera in a dark jacket and striped pants. I tried to put the image of his naked body from my mind.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound bright and jaunty. “I’ve come to see Sir Toby.”
“Whom may I say is calling, miss?” he asked.
“La—” I started to give my full name, then swallowed it back. “My name’s Georgie. I’m staying at the villa next door and Sir Toby invited me for a swim in his pool or maybe a sail on his yacht.”
“Please come in and wait while I inform Sir Toby of your arrival,” the young man said formally, giving a little bow.
It suddenly dawned on me that he was not a guest, but one of Sir Toby’s servants. I wondered if his master had given him permission to swim in the pool. I tried to imagine one of our servants daring to swim nude—not that we had a pool, and the loch was too cold for nude bathing—but I’m sure they would never have considered such unseemly behavior. The words “Not quite one of us,” a sentiment expressed one way or another several times to describe Sir Toby, passed through my head. Perhaps servants of the old school didn’t want to work for him, in spite of his money.
I waited in a circular entrance hall with a white marble floor. Around the walls were Roman or Greek busts—and I was pretty sure they were not copies. From a room beyond a voice boomed, echoing unnaturally loudly, “Yes, Johnson, what is it now? A visitor? Well, you can see I’m in the bath, damn it. If it’s that slimy little toad Schumann again, tell him he’s wasting his time. He’ll get nothing out of me and if he tries to pursue this, he’ll be sorry.”
There was a pause. Then I heard him say, “What? Who? Well, that’s different. Show her into the drawing room, get her something to drink. I’ll be along in a jiffy.”
Johnson appeared, looking a trifle embarrassed. “Sir Toby suggests you wait for him in the drawing room, miss,” he said.
“I heard.” I shared a grin with him.
“This way.” He led me through the entrance hall into a sumptuous room. The walls were lined with what even I, with my lack of knowledge, recognized as paintings of masters old and new. Wasn’t that a Renoir, and that a Van Gogh? And on various shelves and tables there were beautiful objects—cabinets of fine porcelain, silver bowls and, in a glass-topped table, I thought I recognized his collection of snuffboxes. I inched closer.
“What may I bring you to drink?” Johnson asked.
“What? Oh, a citron presse would be very nice,” I replied.
“A what, miss?”
“Fresh lemonade, you know.”
I moved toward the table. What a lot of snuffboxes there were—silver ones, gold ones, boxes carved out of jade . . . and surely that was the queen’s box in the middle? I tried to remember the exact description. I’d only know the truth if I could open the lid and see the picture of Marie Antoinette in a frame of diamonds. I wondered how easily the lid of the table would lift up—oh so casually I put my hand on it and started to raise it gently until—
“Ah, there you are,” boomed the voice behind me. “Delighted you came, my dear.”
I let the lid fall and spun around, red faced. Sir Toby was wearing white trousers and a striped fisherman’s jersey, rather like mine. Only his was a little tight and stretched over a large paunch. He bore down on me, holding out his hand. “Absolutely delighted. Nothing like a bright young face around the place to cheer me up. Has that man of mine brought you a drink yet? No? The boy is hopeless. Came with good references but he’ll have to go. My last manservant could read my mind, you know. I never had to ask for a thing.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Had to let him go. Found he’d been helping himself to my good Scotch. The really good stuff. Couldn’t tolerate that. This young chap doesn’t drink.” We looked up at the light tap of feet on the marble. “Ah, there you are, Johnson. Oh, and you’ve brought my whiskey. You may just be all right after all.”
Johnson placed my drink on a low table, bowed then retreated.
Sir Toby poured himself a generous amount of Scotch and raised his glass to me. “Down the hatch.” He drained the glass. “So why on earth are you staying with the old hens next door? I’d have thought a bright young thing like you would have more fun somewhere in town.”
I thought carefully before I answered. “I’ve been doing a spot of modeling for Chanel. She wanted me to stay with her so that she could work with me.” Which was the truth. I’ve always found it easier not to lie whenever possible.
“Ah, so you’re a model. That explains it. Do you do your modeling in London or Paris?”
“I don’t really model professionally,” I said. “I just do it occasionally to help out friends.”
“Of course. Of course. Well-brought-up girl like you—it wouldn’t be seemly to work for your living, would it?” He laughed heartily. “So how do you like my humble abode?”
“It’s magnificent,” I said. “You have so many lovely things.”
“I’m a bit of a collector,” Sir Toby said smugly. “I like to have beautiful things around me. You see that painting? It’s a Turner—one of my favorites. And the sunflowers? Van Gogh. And that picture of a chair beside it. Another Van Gogh, painted in Arles. He’s going to be worth a mint one day, take my word for it.”
“So you prefer recent masterpieces, do you?” I asked innocently.
“I collect the best of every century,” he said. “Those busts in the hall—from ancient Rome. That silver? Georgian. And that little table in the corner—Louis XIV. I don’t specialize in any particular country or period—anything rare and valuable. That’s what I collect. The art in this villa alone is worth a mint. And I’ve even more in my country house in England.”
Before I could come up with any kind of sensible question to bring the subject to snuffboxes, he clapped his hands. “So what are we waiting for? I promised you a sail, didn’t I? The yacht’s out there and ready to go, so let’s go down to the dock. Johnson!” he yelled.
Johnson appeared.
“You’ve got the list of things I want done in town, haven’t you? You can take the car. And take the rest of the afternoon off if you like. I’ll be dining out.”
With that he ushered me out through some French doors, then down a flight of steps cut into the cliff, to a jetty at which the sleek teak launch I’d seen before was tied. He jumped down into it with surprising agility for a man of his age and build, then held out his hand to me. I thought he held it rather overlong and squeezed it a little hard. Then he was all business, starting the motor, untying the ropes and steering us out into the blue water. When he was clear of the dock he opened the throttle and the boat shot forward, heading to the great blue and white yacht anchored a few hundred yards offshore. Uniformed crew lowered a ladder and came down to assist us. I was helped on board and heard the sound of the anchor being raised.
“I thought we’d go down the coast to Monte.” Sir Toby took my elbow and propelled me forward to a canopied area at the bow as the yacht began to move. “Lovely stretch of coast all the way. Splendid place, Monte. Ever been there?”
“Never,” I said, my eyes feasting on that magnificent coastline—the steep cliffs plunging into the ocean with villas perched on apparently sheer slopes. It was breathtaking. I also noticed clouds building over the mountains and felt the stiff wind in my face as the yacht came out of the bay.
Sir Toby pointed out another, even bigger, white yacht that was steaming further out to sea. “See that? Duke of West-minster’s bloody great monstrosity. Pretentious, wouldn’t you say? He has the casino at Cannes fire a twenty-one–gun salute to him when he comes into the harbor. He’s got the Prince of Wales on board at the moment, did you know? And I rather fancy a certain American woman may have joined the party by now.” He gave me a nudge. “Let’s see if we can race them to Monte, shall we?” He turned to one of the young men standing at attention behind us. “Full steam ahead, Roberts.” Then he took my arm again. “Come and make yourself comfortable, my dear.”
“Oh, can’t we stay here and look at the view? It’s simply lovely.”
“Plenty of time for the view later. I’ve got a bottle of champagne on ice inside.”
He opened a door into a saloon as large and impressive as most drawing rooms, with windows almost all around. There were leather sofas and great bowls of flowers on the tables and a well-stocked bar in one corner. He motioned me to sit, then barked out orders to a crew member who hovered behind us. “You can open the champagne now and tell the chef we’ll be wanting something to eat soon. And none of that mamby-pamby French stuff either. Good hearty English food, tell him.”
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