Free Malice at the Palace by Rhys Bowen

she shook it heartily.
    â€œHas the king sent you perhaps to assure that the accommodations are suitable?”
    â€œActually it was the queen who asked me to come and stay here to look after Princess Marina until her marriage.”
    Countess Irmtraut frowned. “To stay here? Look after Her Highness? Why should this be necessary? She has me to look after her. And I know her wishes.”
    Oh dear. She looked seriously put out. “I’m sure you do,” I said. “But the queen suggested that I acquaint Princess Marina with the way things are done in England and show her around London.”
    â€œI see.” She did not look very happy.
    â€œI don’t know which rooms I am to have,” I said. “I presume Major Beauchamp-Chough will show me to my quarters.”
    â€œThis major is the very correct Englishman who lives here?” she asked.
    I nodded. “I believe so.”
    â€œHe is very military, I think,” she said. “Not a sympathetic man. Prince George, is he a sympathetic man? I do not wish someone like this major for Marina.”
    â€œPrince George is very nice,” I could say with complete truth. “Very kind. Good sense of humor.”
    â€œThis is good. Not all princes are sympathetic. We have met some recently who are . . .” She broke off, weighing whether to proceed with this topic. “You are acquainted with Prince Siegfried perhaps?”
    â€œOf Romania? Oh dear, yes. There was a push to make me marry him once.”
    â€œSomebody pushed you? This is dangerous. Did you fall?”
    â€œNo, I meant that my relatives were keen on such a match for me. But he was awful. Arrogant. Cold. We called him Fishface.”
    She looked troubled. “But he does not have the face of a fish, I think. He has the face of a human.”
    I was beginning to find this conversation really tiring and was relieved when a door nearby opened and a man came out, striding toward me with purpose.
    â€œLady Georgiana,” he said, extending his hand to me. “I was just told that you were in the building. Forgive me for not welcoming you. Beauchamp-Chough. Major, Life Guards. I’m currently acting as His Royal Highness Prince George’s equerry and have been put in charge of this upcoming bun fight.”
    â€œBun fight?” Countess Irmtraut exclaimed. “There is to be a fight with pastries? This is an old English custom?”
    The major and I both laughed.
    â€œActually it’s a familiar term for any kind of celebration, hence, the wedding,” the major said.
    â€œI see. Another English joke.” Her face did not crack a smile, but the major exchanged a brief glance with me and there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
    He was younger than I expected, but certainly of military bearing, tall, erect, with a neat little blond mustache. Quite good-looking, I noted.
    â€œHow do you do, Major Beauchamp-Chough.” I shook his hand while Countess Irmtraut stood and glowered.
    â€œMost people call me B-C,” he said. “Or Major B-C, if you wish.” He grinned. “It refers to my initials, not my age.”
    â€œBut it is impossible for you to have been born before Christ,” Irmtraut said. “Surely you did not think we would believe you to be so old.”
    When neither of us replied she sighed. “I see. Another English joke. Your country has much humor, I think.”
    â€œOh, absolutely. A laugh a minute,” he said, and to my amusement she checked the watch that was pinned to the front of her dress.
    â€œMajor Beauchamp-Chough,” she said, “I requested that someone be dispatched to find me some pickled herring. So far nobody has returned with any.”
    â€œPerhaps they are still fishing for it in the Round Pond,” he suggested, his face expressionless.
    â€œBut no.” Countess Irmtraut shook her head emphatically. “They will find no herring in a pond. It is