Free Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery) by Rhys Bowen Page A

that it gave a hostile, unfriendly impression.
    “This is Villa Gloriosa?” I repeated to the taxi driver.
    “ Oui, Madame. See, it says so, on the plaque on the wall.”
    Whoever had named it had strange delusions of grandeur, or was nearsighted. I got out and walked down a narrow path between overgrown Italian cypresses, which reached out to scratch me in unfriendly fashion as I passed, then knocked at the front door. The paint was peeling and the big oak door did not have an air of being opened frequently. I heard footsteps and then the door creaked open.
    A large woman stood there, dressed head to toe in black. She stared at me.
    “Bonjour,” I said, giving her a pleasant smile. “I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch. I am expected.”
    “No, you are not,” she said, eyeing me coldly.
    “But yes,” I insisted. “I have come to stay. I sent a telegram.”
    “I know of no telegram.”
    “I am the sister of the duke.”
    “I know of no duke,” she replied, and as if to emphasize this she folded her arms across her enormous chest.
    Light was beginning to dawn. Obviously the fool of a taxi driver had got the wrong address. “This is the Villa Gloriosa ?” I asked.
    It was.
    “And it is currently rented by a Monsieur and Madame Farquar?”
    “Farquar? Oui ,” she said.
    “Then I am in the right place. My brother and sister-in-law are staying with Monsieur and Madame Farquar and I am to join them.”
    “I was given no instruction that another guest was expected.”
    “Then please go and fetch your master or mistress and they will explain to you.”
    The arms remained folded. “They are out,” she said.
    “When will they return?”
    “I don’t know. They took a picnic.”
    “What happens here?” I heard the cabdriver asking behind me as he arrived with Queenie and the baggage.
    “This person doesn’t want to admit me,” I told him.
    “Who gives you authority not to admit the English milady ?” the cabdriver demanded. “This is an English milady.”
    “This house is rented to Mr. Farquar. Until he says yes, I do not admit strangers.”
    “Well, I’m not going to sit on the doorstep,” I said. My temper was wearing thin and I decided that I had been polite long enough. “Do you think I would come all this way, with my maid and my bags, if I was not invited to stay here? This is no way to behave to an English milady.” I turned to the taxi driver. “Bring the bags inside.”
    The woman in black looked as if she was considering whether to stand in his way or not. He was a burly man and in the end she sniffed and stood aside. “There is nowhere for her to sleep. She can wait in the salon, until Monsieur and Madame Farquar return,” she said, moving ahead to block the staircase as if I might decide to sprint up it any second.
    The salon was gloomy in the extreme. It smelled musty, almost damp, as if it had been neglected for a long time. In fact, I suspected that mushrooms were growing in the darker corners. It was cold but there was no fire in a tall marble fireplace. The shutters were closed and the furniture was dark and heavy—and uncomfortable too. I sat on a sofa that had the most surprising lumps and bumps and waited. Queenie perched on my trunk in the foyer. To begin with I had been angry. Now I began to feel more and more uneasy. I had sent a telegram. They knew I was coming. So perhaps I wasn’t welcome after all.

 
    Chapter 9
     
    January 22, 1933
Villa Gloriosa. Talk about misnamed! Nothing in the least
glorious about it. Furthermore was not made welcome. Did
I do the right thing, coming here?
     
    The day wore on. I began to feel hungry, but I thought my chances of getting something to eat from the harridan were not good. Surely Podge would have to come home to take his afternoon nap, wouldn’t he? I wouldn’t have minded exploring the garden, but I was sure that, once I was outside, the dragon woman would not allow me in again. I heard a clock in another room strike one, then