Free The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3 by P. G. Wodehouse

hob-nobbings at Eden Roc and the ordinary exchanges of civilities customary on the French Riviera – but it seemed to him that there was a grave danger of her introducing into their relations now that touch of Auld Lang Syne which is the last thing a young man wants when he has a fiancée around – and a fiancée, moreover, who has already given evidence of entertaining distressing suspicions.
    Mrs Spottsworth had come upon him as a complete and painful surprise. At Cannes he had got the impression that her name was Bessemer, but of course in places like Cannes you don’t bother much about surnames. He had, he recalled, always addressed her as Rosie, and she – he shuddered – had addressed him as Billiken. A clear, but unpleasant, picture rose before his eyes of Jill’s face when she heard her addressing him as Billiken at dinner tonight. Most unfortunately, through some oversight, he had omitted to mention to Jill his Riviera acquaintance Mrs Bessemer, and he could see that she might conceivably take a little explaining away.
    ‘How nice to see you again, Rosalinda,’ said Monica. ‘So glad you found your way here all right. It’s rather tricky after you leave the main road. My husband, Sir Roderick Carmoyle. And this is –’
    ‘Billiken!’ cried Mrs Spottsworth, with all the enthusiasm of a generous nature. It was plain that if the ecstasy occasioned by this unexpected encounter was a little one-sided, on her side at least it existed in full measure.
    ‘Eh?’ said Monica.
    ‘Mr Belfry and I are old friends. We knew each other in Cannes a few years ago, when I was Mrs Bessemer.’
    ‘Bessemer!’
    ‘It was not long after my husband had passed the veil owing to having a head-on collision with a truck full of beer bottles on the Jericho Turnpike. His name was Clifton Bessemer.’
    Monica shot a pleased and congratulatory look at Bill. She knew all about Mrs Bessemer of Cannes. She was aware that her brother had given this Mrs Bessemer the rush of a lifetime, and what better foundation could a young man with a house to sell have on which to build?
    ‘Well, that’s fine,’ she said. ‘You’ll have all sorts of things to talk about, won’t you? But he isn’t Mr Belfry now, he’s Lord Rowcester.’
    ‘Changed his name,’ explained Rory. ‘The police are after him, and an
alias
was essential.’
    ‘Oh, don’t be an ass, Rory. He came into the title,’ said Monica. ‘You know how it is in England. You start out as something, and then someone dies and you do a switch. Our uncle, Lord Rowcester, pegged out not long ago, and Bill was his heir, so he shed the Belfry and took on the Rowcester.’
    ‘I see. Well, to me he will always be Billiken. How are you, Billiken?’
    Bill found speech, though not much of it and what there was rather rasping.
    ‘I’m fine, thanks – er – Rosie.’
    ‘Rosie?’ said Rory, startled and, like the child of nature he was, making no attempt to conceal his surprise ‘Did I hear you say Rosie?’
    Bill gave him a cold look.
    ‘Mrs Spottsworth’s name, as you have already learned from a usually well-informed source – viz Moke – is Rosalinda. All her friends – even casual acquaintances like myself – called her Rosie.’
    ‘Oh, ah,’ said Rory. ‘Quite, quite. Very natural, of course.’
    ‘Casual acquaintances?’ said Mrs Spottsworth, pained.
    Bill plucked at his tie.
    ‘Well, I mean blokes who just knew you from meeting you at Cannes and so forth.’
    ‘Cannes!’ cried Mrs Spottsworth ecstatically. ‘Dear, sunny, gay, delightful Cannes! What times we had there, Billiken! Do you remember –’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ said Bill. ‘Very jolly, the whole thing. Won’t you have a drink or a sandwich or a cigar or something?’
    Fervently he blessed the Mainwarings’ Peke for being so confirmed a hypochondriac that it had taken Jill away to the other side of the county. By the time she returned, Mrs Spottsworth, he trusted, would have simmered down and