Free Naughty In Nice by Rhys Bowen

last night— The Lady , it’s called. Ever so posh, and a servant said that in one of the stories. ‘It shall be done according to your wishes.’ That’s what she said. I was thinking about what you said, see. About me sounding dead common and that I should learn to speak proper like what you do. So I thought I’d start improving meself right away.” She grinned, then peered at me. “Are you all right, miss? You look as white as a sheet. It’s all this swaying around. You’d better sit down.”
    I noticed for the first time that the attendant had been in and turned the beds back into seats. I sat. Queenie went on with her packing, chatting as she did so. “They had lots of pictures of posh folks in that there magazine, but I didn’t see yours. You should get out more, miss. Mingle in society—that’s what they call it, don’t they?”
    I wanted to shout at her to shut up. Instead I turned and stared out the window. It didn’t have to be the same Darcy, did it? There was more than one Darcy in the world, although it wasn’t a common name. And how many Darcys were heir to a title? I knew in my heart that it was he and a great weight of doom came over me. He had a child he’d been hiding from me. He had another woman in his life. I was just one of a string of girlfriends. I didn’t matter at all.
    “It’s time to stop this stupid nonsense,” I said to myself. “Clinging to a false hope that one day we can marry. Well, I can’t afford to wind up an old maid. I’m going to do what I was supposed to and find myself a suitable husband and forget that Darcy O’Mara ever existed.”
    I pressed my lips together hard, worried for an awful moment that I might cry. The attendant tapped on my door. “We shall be arriving in Nice shortly, my lady.”
    The train began to slow. Then it glided to a halt at Nice Station. Porters swarmed on board. Two of them grabbed my bags. I commanded Queenie to follow them and not let them out of her sight. I descended to find the bags already on a trolley and off we went at a great rate to find a taxi.
    “The Villa Gloriosa,” I said to the taxicab driver.
    “Comment?” he asked, meaning “What was that?”
    I repeated the name. “You know your way around Nice, do you?”
    “ Oui, Madame. But I am not sure of the location of Villa Gloriosa. On what street is it to be found?”
    I fished for the address and gave it to him. He pursed his lips as if he was not impressed.
    “Is it far from here?” I asked.
    “Not far.”
    We set off—through small backstreets with balconies and peeling shutters and then out to that magnificent thoroughfare, the Promenade des Anglais. It was just as fine as it had looked in the poster—lined with palm trees, with elegant couples strolling and the sea beyond—sparkling in unbelievable shades of turquoise and azure. In spite of everything my spirits rose. Soon I’d be sitting on a terrace above that glittering sea, or strolling like those people on the Promenade, and I’d meet fascinating, witty new men, and I wouldn’t have to be with Fig every minute of every day. . . .
    After a little way we turned off the boulevard and went inland again, and the atmosphere quickly deteriorated. We turned up a small street with a repair shop on the corner. Get your punctures repaired here , was the slogan painted on a white wall. The road began to climb a little, with nondescript buildings on either side, then it turned into a lane.
    “Are you sure this is right?” I asked.
    “ Oui, Madame. This is undoubtedly the address you have given me.”
    “Then it’s nowhere near the sea?”
    “Apparently no, Madame .”
    The lane narrowed until it was just wide enough for the taxi, with a high rough stone wall on either side. Then it stopped at high wrought-iron gates. The driver got out and opened the gates with difficulty. I found myself looking at a wild garden of dark, overgrown shrubs and beyond that a tall, plain house, its green shutters closed so