Free Her Royal Spyness by Rhys Bowen

can’t really say,” I confessed, “but I’m frequently amused and she never was, apparently. At least not after Albert died. In fact, given my grim list of ancestors, I’d say I’m pretty normal.”
    “I’d say you turned out pretty damned well, for someone who is more than half English,” he said and, to my annoyance, I blushed again.
    “I think I’ll go and try some of that crab,” I said and turned away, only to bump into a familiar face.
    “Darling!” Belinda cried excitedly, “I had no idea you were coming to this bash. Why didn’t you tell me? We could have taken a cab together. What fun, isn’t it? Who’d have thought that Primrose would settle down with someone like Roly?”
    “Primrose?” I glanced across the room to glimpse the bride’s back, hidden beneath a long veil around which everybody was cautiously stepping.
    “The bride, darling. Primrose Asquey d’Asquey. She was at school with us, don’t you remember? Well, for one term anyway. She was expelled for giving the new girls a lecture on how to use the Dutch cap.”
    We looked at each other and started to laugh.
    “I do remember,” I said.
    “And now she’s marrying Roland Aston-Poley. Military family. Which means she’s gone from being Primrose
    Asquey d’Asquey to being Primrose Roly Poley. Not a happy choice, if you ask me.”
    I laughed with her.
    “So you’re part of Roly’s brigade then,” she said. “I didn’t realize you had army connections.”
    “Not really.” I started to blush again, then grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the main crush of guests. “Actually I’m here with an extraordinary chap. Darcy O’Mara. Do you know him?”
    “Can’t say that I do. Point him out to me.”
    “Over there by that flower arrangement.”
    “I say. Not bad. You can introduce me anytime you want to. Tell me all about him.”
    “That’s just it,” I whispered. “I’m not really sure if he’s who he claims to be or a confidence trickster.”
    “Has he asked you to lend him money?”
    “No.”
    “Then he’s probably all right. Who does he say he is?”
    “Lord Kilhenny’s son. Irish baron.”
    “There’s a million of them. I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment. So he’s the one who knows Roly?”
    I leaned even closer. “He doesn’t know either of them. We’re gate-crashers. Apparently he does this sort of thing often, just to get a free meal. It’s shocking, isn’t it? I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
    To my horror, she started to laugh. When she had controlled her mirth, she leaned toward me. “I’ll let you into a little secret. I’m doing exactly the same thing. I wasn’t invited either.”
    “Belinda! How could you?”
    “Easily. Exactly the same way you could. My face is sort of familiar. I’m seen at Ascot and the opera, so nobody ever questions whether I was invited or not. It works wonderfully.”
    “But you said you were doing so well in your career.”
    She made a face. “Not all that well, actually. It’s tough to start up a business, especially if you want to design clothes for the fashionable set. They never want to pay, you see. They gush over the dress I’ve designed for them and tell me they positively adore it and I’m the cleverest person they’ve ever met. Then they wear it to the opera and when I remind them they haven’t paid, they point out that they have been advertising my dress just by wearing it and I should be grateful. I’m sometimes owed several hundred pounds, and the fabrics are not cheap.”
    “How awful for you.”
    “It’s difficult,” she agreed, “because if I make a fuss and upset one of them, she’ll tell the rest of her set and they’ll drop me like a hot potato.”
    I did see that this was likely to happen. “So what are you going to do? You can’t keep financing their new clothes forever.”
    “I’m hoping for the big break, I suppose. If one of the royal family—or one of the Prince of Wales’s lady friends—decides she likes