Free Heirs and Graces (A Royal Spyness Mystery) by Rhys Bowen Page B

and tanned and primitive.” And he gave a tiger-like growl.
    Adrian led me at a great pace along a hall lined with weapons. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “The family hardly ever uses them these days.”
    “Actually I feel quite at home,” I said. “Our Scottish castle has a pretty formidable collection of weapons too.”
    “Oh, of course, I keep forgetting that you’re almost royalty,” he said. “And you seem so nice and normal too. Listen.” He paused and cocked his head like a spaniel out shooting. “I think they’ve moved to the ballroom, cheeky devils. I hope you’re not easily shocked. God knows what they’ll be doing in there. They do tend to get carried away.”
    At the end of the hall we turned a corner, and Adrian thrust open the first door on our left. We stepped into a glorious room. French windows, framed with blue-velvet drapes revealed a view of lawns, giving way to parkland and distant hills on which tiny dots of sheep were grazing. The parquet floor glowed with loving care, and a row of impressive chandeliers was suspended along the length of the ceiling. At the far end was a raised dais for an orchestra. It was currently occupied by another slim young man in black operating a gramophone, which he was in the process of rewinding.
    “Do it again, Jules,” he said. “And this time try to imagine you’re Fred Astaire.”
    “He’ll never manage it, he has too much hair, Simon,” Adrian called.
    “Then pretend you’re Ginger Rogers,” the dark young man he’d addressed as Simon said.
    The person they were talking about stood in the middle of the room, wearing a leotard and tights. He really did have lovely hair—a honey-blonde color, which curled over his ears. I was quite jealous.
    “It’s no good, Simon. I just don’t feel it,” he said. “There’s something not quite right about the music.”
    “What are you two doing in here? I’m sure Ceddy wouldn’t like you wandering all over the house without his permission,” Adrian said.
    “We’re working on the new play, silly,” Simon said. “If he wants to have an original Simon Wetherington creation for his festival this autumn, I have to get a move on. And Jules is being difficult and can’t seem to get what I want him to do.”
    “I just don’t see myself as a dancing Welsh coal miner,” Jules said.
    “It’s a dream sequence, Jules. You’re an actor. Put yourself into the role. Work with me.”
    They seemed to notice me standing in the doorway for the first time. “I don’t think we’re ready for outside observers yet,” Simon said.
    “This is Georgiana Rannoch. You know—Lady Georgiana Rannoch from the society pages. Pally with the royals.”
    This was a slight exaggeration. I’d made the society pages a few times during my season but hardly ever since then. But they all came over to me excitedly nonetheless.
    “She’s going to be staying for a while,” Adrian said.
    “Lovely. Can you dance? You could be Ginger Rogers for poor Jules, who hates dancing alone.”
    “I’m afraid I’m a hopeless dancer.”
    “Pity,” Simon said. “You’ve got the right color hair for the part.”
    “So are you creating a musical comedy?” I asked.
    “It’s going to be darker than that, darling—a combination folk opera, Shakespearean drama and musical revue, all rolled into one.”
    “Quite an innovation,” Adrian said. “The boy’s brilliant, of course. Ceddy snapped him up when he saw his last play being performed in Edinburgh.”
    “And he’s promised to put on the extravaganza at his new festival, if Simon can finish it in time,” Jules said.
    “What festival is this?”
    “Haven’t you heard?” they twittered at me excitedly, making me think how apt it was of someone to have dubbed them the Starlings.
    “Ceddy’s planning to have an outdoor amphitheater built down below the cascades,” Simon said. “He wants to hold a festival here, like Glyndebourne. He wants Kingsdowne to become
the
mecca