Free Her Royal Spyness by Rhys Bowen Page A

my dresses, then everyone in the world will want them. That’s where you could be most helpful, you know. If you are going to be mingling with your royal cousin and his set, I’ll lend you one of my designs to wear and you can gush about me.”
    “I wouldn’t guarantee that my cousin’s women would pay up any quicker than your current clients,” I said. “But I don’t mind trying for you. Especially if it allows me to wear a slinky new dress.”
    “Splendid!” Belinda beamed at me.
    “I’m sorry you’re going through such a tough time,” I said.
    “Oh, there are a few honest ones among them—mostly old money, you know. Properly brought up, like you. It’s those dreadful nouveau riche women who try to wriggle out of paying. I could name one society belle who looked me straight in the eye and insisted she had already paid, when she knew as well as I did that she hadn’t. They’re just not like us, darling.”
    I squeezed her arm. “At least you are out and about in society. You’re bound to meet a rich and handsome man and then your money worries will be over.”
    “So will you, darling. So will you.” She glanced across the room. “I take it that handsome Irish peer’s son does not come with a fortune?”
    “Penniless,” I said.
    “Dear me. Not a wise choice then, in spite of his looks. Although after last night’s little conversation about sex lives, he might be just the one to . . .”
    “Belinda!” I hissed as Darcy was making in our direction. “I’ve only just met him and I have no intention—”
    “We never have, darling. That’s just the problem. We never have.” Belinda turned to meet Darcy with an angelic smile.
    The afternoon went on. Smoked salmon came around, and shrimp and sausage rolls and savory éclairs. My spirits began to rise with the champagne intake until I was actually enjoying myself. Darcy had vanished into the crowd and I was standing alone when I noticed a potted palm tree swaying by itself as if in a strong wind. Since no wind is allowed to blow through ballrooms at Grosvenor House I was intrigued. I made my way to the corner and peered around the palm tree. A vision in alarming royal purple satin stood there, holding on to the palm tree as it swayed. What’s more, I recognized her. It was another old school chum, Marisa Pauncefoot-Young, daughter of the Earl of Malmsbury.
    “Marisa,” I hissed.
    She attempted to focus on me. “Oh, hello, Georgie. What are you doing here?”
    “More to the point, what exactly are you doing—dancing with a palm tree?”
    “No, I came over all dizzy so I thought I’d retire to a quiet corner, but the damned tree won’t stay still.”
    “Marisa,” I said severely, “you’re drunk.”
    “I fear so.” She sighed. “It was all Primrose’s fault. She insisted on having a very boozy breakfast to pluck up courage before the ceremony and then I got rather depressed all of a sudden and champagne does have a wonderful way of lifting the spirits, doesn’t it?”
    I took her arm. “Come on, come with me. We’ll find somewhere to sit and get you some black coffee.”
    I led her out of the ballroom and found two gilt chairs in a hallway. Then I hailed a passing waiter. “Lady Marisa isn’t feeling well,” I whispered. “Do you think you could rustle up some black coffee for her?”
    Black coffee appeared instantly. Marisa sipped and shuddered alternately. “Why can’t I ever be a happy drunk?” she demanded. “One too many and my legs won’t hold me up any longer. This is very sweet of you, Georgie. I didn’t even know you were coming.”
    “Neither did I until the last moment,” I said truthfully. “So tell me, why were you so depressed?”
    “Look at me.” She made a dramatic gesture at herself. “I look as if I’ve been swallowed by a particularly unpleasant variety of boa constrictor.”
    She wasn’t wrong. The dress was long, tight, and purple. Since Marisa has no figure to speak of and is almost six feet