Free Naughty In Nice by Rhys Bowen Page B

two.
    Queenie poked her head around the door. I had left her guarding the luggage in the front hall. “I ain’t half hungry, miss,” she said. “Don’t they have no dinner in this house?”
    “Dinner is in the evening, Queenie,” I said. “Remember what I told you. Only the lower classes call their midday meal dinner. To us it is lunch. But the answer is that I think it unlikely that we’ll get anything to eat until the family returns.”
    “We could go and stay in one of them hotels. A darned sight friendlier than that old woman.”
    “I agree,” I said, “but I don’t have the money for hotels. We’ll just have to wait.”
    “I got a bar of chocolate we can share,” she said generously and broke a Cadbury’s in half for us.
    At about three o’clock there were voices and footsteps on the gravel. I went to the door of the salon just as the front door burst open and Podge rushed in ahead of the grownups. He jumped in surprise when he saw me then his face lit up with recognition.
    “Auntie Georgie! You came after all.” He turned back. “Mama. Papa. Auntie Georgie came.”
    I looked up to see four adults looking at me with a mixture of surprise and horror.
    “What on earth are you doing here?” Fig demanded.
    “Good to see you, old bean,” Binky said. “So glad you could make it, but you might have warned us.”
    “I sent a telegram, two days ago,” I said.
    “We received no telegram.” The woman who spoke looked like an older, haughtier and grumpier version of Fig. “To what address did you send it?”
    “The Villa Gloriosa,” I said.
    The large red-faced man with an impressive handlebar mustache sniffed. “Damned Frenchies got it wrong again, I suppose. Hopeless—foreigners don’t have a clue, do they? There’s a Villa Glorieux as well and they’ve mixed us up before.” He came toward me, hand extended. “I’m Foggy Farquar. So you’re Georgiana. Good to meet you at last. Welcome to the humble abode.”
    At least the males in the party were pleased to see me. “Thank you.”
    “And this is my wife, Ducky.”
    “My sister, Matilda,” Fig corrected. “Matilda, this is Binky’s sister, Georgiana.”
    Matilda? I tried not to grin. A Hilda and Matilda in one family. I could see that nicknames like Ducky and Fig were preferable. We shook hands. Hers was bony, like clutching a claw.
    “I’m sorry I gave you a shock,” I said, “but I really did send the telegram.”
    “How did you get here?” Fig asked. “I didn’t think you had money for the fare. Did you come second class on ordinary trains?”
    “No. The Blue Train like you.” It gave me great satisfaction to say the words. “The queen paid for my ticket. She thought I looked too pale and needed sunshine.”
    “The queen?” Ducky Farquar said. “She paid for your ticket?” She glanced at Fig.
    “The queen seems to have a soft spot for Georgiana,” Fig said icily.
    “She’s very kind to her relatives,” I added, just to remind them that I was related to royalty and they weren’t. “And since Binky and Fig had said I was welcome anytime at the villa . . .” I left the rest of that sentence hanging.
    Ducky shot Fig a look of pure venom. “Of course you are welcome,” she said, “but the question is—where are we going to put you? The house is not at all large. Much smaller than described in the advertisement. Quite poky, in fact.”
    “You don’t have any spare bedrooms?”
    “Not on the main floor. There may be rooms up in the servants’ quarter in the attic. But we couldn’t put you up there with the maids. It wouldn’t be the done thing, would it?”
    “She could bunk in with Maude, couldn’t she?” Foggy suggested.
    “Maude?” I asked.
    “Our daughter. Yes, I suppose Maude does have a large room. But it would be up to her. You know how sensitive she is, and how particular.”
    “Well, ask her, Ducky,” Foggy said impatiently. “Where has the child got to now? Maude?” he called.
    A face